Cold Comfort
by ebuchala
Summary: Surviving an unhappy childhood Pyro thinks he's found his place among the Brotherhood until true colors show and he begins to question their basic tenets. When his dad's past comes back to haunt him, he's forced to rely on the Brotherhood to help save him
1. Beginnings

Cold Comfort, Part I: Beginnings

Webster's Dictionary:  
**cold comfort**  
quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

* * *

_Six Years Old_

The boy marked his color-testing page with the yellow-orange crayon. Nope, that wasn't it. Furrowing his brow, he dug through the colors again. Hmmm, mac and cheese. He liked mac and cheese but doubted the color would be right. Marking the test page again, he nodded. His suspicions were confirmed._ That_ wouldn't work, either. Another forage through the shoe box of crayons produced burnt orange. That sounded perfect! The test was disappointing, though–too brown. The boy rubbed the tip of his nose before scrounging though the colors again. A flash of bright orange caught his eye and he pulled out a flame orange triumphantly. His eyes lit up as he marked the test page. Perfect!

He bent over the page he was coloring, frowning in concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth. The only things left on the picture were the flames and he wanted them perfect, like the rest of the picture. He carefully streaked in the orange color over the yellow and reds he'd already laid down.

The fire emanated from a ferocious dragon. He'd colored it dark green and black with red-orange eyes and blood staining one claw. He knew that St. George defeated the dragon (of _course_ he did, he was the knight), but figured the dragon had been fierce and would've drawn blood at least once before his destruction.

On the other side of the flames was St. George–a strong-looking knight with bright silver armor, holding a large shield in front of him that the fire licked against in an effort to destroy the hero. The boy impatiently brushed a strand of brown hair out of his eyes and added another streak of orange in the center of the flame.

This was one of John's favorite stories. _St._ John was his full name but he'd never liked it. It reminded him of the old, gaunt-looking men in the pictures at church. Weak and sickly-looking, he thought. And then Grandma sat him down one day (was he 3 at the time? musta been 3 or 4) and read to him the story of St. George and the dragon. St. George, the _hero_. He was proud of his name after that, never dreaming that saints could be so...you know, _cool_.

They'd gone onto other stories after that–King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, and Merlin the magician. He always thought his father must be a knight of some sort. Maybe he disguised himself in suits and ties but surely he was a knight underneath it all.

_He told his Grandma that one day when he was four, sitting on her lap after hearing about the Lady of the Lake. She laughed that crackly but wonderful laugh that John loved. It sounded even better knowing he'd been the cause. A cocky little grin lifted the corners of his mouth, which seemed to delight his grandmother even more. When she finished laughing, she explained to John what daddy did. He worked in a laboratory with chemicals and spent his time figuring out how to make medicines that would help people get better, among other things._

"_Potions!" John exclaimed, bouncing on grandma's lap. She smiled at him, watching his precocious mind put this new information together. It clicked._

"_He's like Merlin!" John said excitedly, his eyes bright as he considered how awesome it was to be a wizard. "Can daddy do magic?"_

The last streak of orange had been added and the colored picture was complete. Daddy was going to love this. John smiled smugly, then his face clouded as he thought of Grandma. He'd gotten the coloring book last week for his 6th birthday. The next day, Grandma went to the hospital. No one said much to him about her but he could tell it was bad. Maybe he should give her the picture. It might make her feel better.

John chewed on his bottom lip while contemplating his problem. Daddy would be home very soon and he may not see Grandma for a couple of days, but he just knew that if he could give her a pretty picture like this, it would help her feel better and remember to fight. His face cleared as he figured out the solution. He would give this one to Daddy since he would be home soon and make another one to take to Grandma at their next visit. With that decided, John stood up just as the door opened and his father walked in.

"Daddy!" he shouted, excited. Still clutching the crayon, John ran towards his father to give him a big hug.

Almost immediately, his father shouted, "STOP!!" putting a hand up, as if to fend him off. John froze in shock, his eyes wide. He'd been in trouble before, had his father yell at him but never like that, in a voice that seemed to be saying so much more than the simple word conveyed. Something stirred in the pit of his stomach and John held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. His mother came into the living room from the kitchen, the scent of some delicious supper following behind her through the door. Her steps faltered as she looked intensely at his father.

"Did you get it?" she whispered, a look of dread on her face. His father nodded curtly, his face grim. Setting down his briefcase, he pulled out a folded paper from his inner jacket pocket and handed it to her. She glanced at John briefly before slowly opening the folded paper and reading it. John heard his mother's sharp intake of breath and watched as she seemed to read over the page several times before her hands dropped in front of her, still clutching the paper.

When he couldn't hold his breath any longer, John started breathing as quietly as possible, still hoping he wouldn't attract his parents' attention. This was huge, whatever it was, and very bad. John could tell that is was bad by the ugly feeling in his stomach. Neither of his parents would look at him. His mother was staring at a point on the wall behind him and father was staring at her.

John looked back and forth between his two parents, trying to put it all together without enough information. Something was wrong. Something was wrong with _him_. A scary thought struck him–what if he was sick? His father worked making medicine for sick people. What if John had a sickness that couldn't be cured? What if he could make other people sick by touching them? That would explain why his father had yelled at him when he came home. Then the scariest thought of all hit him–_what if he couldn't ever touch his parents again_?

His heart began to race uncomfortably and his breathing became shallow. "Mommy?" he whispered timidly.

His father just looked at him sharply and turned back to his mother, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"Could this..." His mother faltered, then cleared her throat and started again, stronger, "Could this test be...wrong?" she ended in a whisper, tears filling her eyes.

His father shook his head firmly and said a terse, "No," his jaw clenching as he looked over the top of his wife's head. "The genes don't lie. The test is accurate, as well. We've performed it on a number of proven cases. Once we recognized that it was paternal, it didn't take long to produce a method for determining whether a man carried the gene or not. I definitely carry..."

But she never let him finish his statement. John flinched as his mother raised her fist and hit his father on the chest. Then again with the other fist, the crumpled paper barely missing his father's chin. She kept hitting him over and over and yelling at him all the while.

"Make it go away! Fix it! This is what you do at work all day–research this _problem_..." she spat out the word "problem" as if it tasted bad, "...and figure out how to fix it. So FIX IT!!" She screamed the last so loudly that John involuntarily stepped back, flinching again, his little stomach tying into knots. His father grabbed his mother's hands, finally stopping her from hitting him more.

"We're working on it!" he said, still struggling a little with John's mother as she tried to strike him again with her fists. "But there's nothing we _can_ do right now. There are at least four facilities worldwide working on this and ours is just one of them. We'll figure it out eventually."

"Eventually," she hissed at his father, her eyes narrowed in anger. "Eventually is too late. We're already stuck with _that_!" she said wildly, vaguely waving her hand toward John. John caught his breath and held it again. Not understanding what his mother was saying, he glanced back fearfully, half-expecting to see some kind of monster behind him. There was nothing there but the wall. What if the monster were inside of him? He felt the darkness inside stir again, something black and cold and scary.

Shivering, he turned back as he heard his mother wail, "We'll never have a normal child, will we?!" before collapsing into his father's arms, sobbing.

His father finally looked at him and John felt like he'd been punched in the gut. The look on his father's face was anger, disgust, and...fear? As if John had suddenly turned into that ferocious dragon and would start spitting fire at them at any moment. As if John was the monster.

John stood transfixed, his eyes still wide, heart pounding and breath ragged. His father turned away and led his mother from the living room and down the hall, neither of them looking back even once.

The flame orange crayon dropped to the ground and rolled across the floor, coming to rest gently beside a crumpled up piece of paper.

* * *

**A/N**: I've got the greatest betas ever!! Thanks to **Calibama** and **schwimmschik **for making me look good.

**Disclaimer**: As I matter of fact, I _do_ own X-men. And little gnomes come and dance in my room every night by the light of the moon. Dance, little gnomes, dance.


	2. The Shed

Cold Comfort, Part II: The Shed

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort  
**quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**shed  
**n. a slight structure built for shelter or storage  
v. to cause (blood) to flow by cutting or wounding; to rid oneself of temporarily or permanently as superfluous or unwanted

* * *

_Nine Years Old  
_

The man sat on the couch staring at a blank television screen. He hadn't bothered to turn it on. There never seemed to be anything worth watching on TV anymore, anyway and he was too wrapped up in his own concerns to find interest in whatever the media would spew at him that night.

He wasn't a tall man, or particularly muscular but there was a look of strength and a hardness to his face caused by his perceived unfairness of life's twists and turns. He was still good-looking, though, with dark brown hair, deep green eyes and full lips, but his face seemed to wear a perpetual look of dissatisfaction and anger. This hadn't always been the case.

He'd been happy once, young and ambitious, looking forward to a life full of promise. He'd had a beautiful wife who loved him and he was slowly working his way into a very successful career. His wife had given him a strong baby...boy...

The man's eyes narrowed and he took another drink from the half-empty whiskey bottle before slamming it down loudly on the end table. His lips twisted into a snarl as he kicked out violently with **h**is left foot, catching the leg of the coffee table and sending it skidding across the carpet. A stack of unread newspapers cascaded to the floor. The man expelled a breath and leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands with a groan.

How had it gotten this bad? But he knew the answer already–it was that damn mutant project. When he'd first started working for Jameson Industries, he'd worked on _normal_ research projects–medicines and the like. The Special Division opened up a year later. Its top secret projects were assigned to the most elite researchers in the company.

When he'd finally made it four years later, he'd been proud and excited never realizing that it would lead to his downfall. They'd gotten his mother-in-law to watch their two-year-old and went out for a celebratory dinner. Life had been good.

He'd loved working in the Special Division. Their focus was almost entirely mutant-related genetic and bio-research and completely classified. He'd admittedly had concerns when he first transferred to the division and found out that they used live subjects in many of their projects. He found out later that quite a few researchers felt the same way their first week or two. Until they actually saw some of the terrifying abilities these creatures had. Some of them didn't even _look_ human.

Any moral qualms he'd had disappeared pretty quickly one day while watching one of the younger subjects–a young man who mostly looked human but could grow extra body parts at will. The mutant called himself Hydra. There was no way he could fully describe the disgust he felt as he watched Hydra grow an extra pair of arms and start strangling one of the guards. The mutant had some amazing healing abilities and it usually took a bullet to the head to stop him. That's when he'd realized that they weren't human at all.

He became completely dedicated to working on the mutant projects he was given. He felt like he was really doing his part to help figure out how to deal with the ever-burgeoning mutant problem. He felt like he was doing something to keep the future safe for his family...

The man scrubbed his face, as if trying to wash away the memories. Leaning back, he grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle, taking another drink and wondering if he should go get the boy out of the shed yet. He set the bottle on his thigh and rested his head on the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the boy in the shed out back.

The kid kind of reminded him of himself at times. Brown eyes like his mother but, other than that, he mostly looked like his father. Same intelligence, too, but the boy was much more of a smart-ass than he'd ever been. He'd been serious at that age, interested in learning and wanting to make the most of his education. The boy was stubborn (okay, he probably got that from his father, too), disobedient, and completely uninterested in school.

Sometimes the man would look at the boy and imagine him performing any number of horrifying things that he'd witnessed the mutant subjects at work doing. That's when he'd find himself dragging the kid out to the shed and locking him in. It was as much to protect the boy as it was to punish him. At least that's what the man told himself when he thought about it.

His position at work had only improved as he'd worked on project after project in the Special Division. Then he'd gotten another break. After being in there for eight months, he'd been assigned to one of their biggest projects–the Carrier Project. They were working on a method of determining when a human male carried the gene that caused mutation. The project came into being as soon as it was found that males carried the gene. They wanted be able to figure out in advance if someone were likely to have a child that was a mutant. He'd been excited by the possibilities of knowing this information and what kind of prevention could be used to reduce the possibilities of a child being born a mutant. Maybe even figure out a way to reverse the mutant gene in children already born with it.

The man threw himself wholeheartedly into the project and helped produce a number of important breakthroughs before it was finally considered a success. The initial tests had to be done on men who had already fathered mutants, so they could be sure the test worked properly. They'd used some volunteers who willingly allowed the testing to be done on their blood. But they'd also had to take some blood "donations" from unaware volunteers, not that this was a problem for a company with Jameson's resources and connections.

The company had decided, as soon as the Carrier Project was proven, that it would require all male employees to volunteer for testing. There wasn't a man there who seemed terribly concerned about this–no one wanted to believe that they might carry a gene that would mean their children were abnormal. In fact, only four men in total turned out to be carriers–-and one of them was the man himself. He'd actually worked on the very project that ended up destroying his life.

Unwilling to acknowledge his own part in ruining everything, the man easily transferred his anger and hatred outward–it was his son's fault for being a mutant; it was his company's fault for forcing everyone to undergo the testing; it was humanity's fault for evolving; but, mostly, it was his son's fault.

Then the unthinkable happened for Jameson Industries. While debates about mutant registration raged on in the public eye, the Carrier Project was shut down and the tests were put in deep storage. Apparently, someone had found out about the testing done on blood samples from several mutant's fathers without their permission. While the review board and even the government would turn a blind eye to using mutants as test subjects, they couldn't ignore the human rights issues brought up by non-mutants. Their biggest Special Division project was terminated. At the same time, the government, willing to humor the mutant-rights activists currently in favor, demanded a reduction in the use of mutant subjects at Jameson's facility. Even though it was all extremely classified, guaranteeing that very few people would ever hear even a rumor about these projects, the company complied, unwilling to tempt the government into shutting them down entirely.

Not that any of this mattered one bit to the man since he had been removed from the Special Division less than a month following his Carrier test. The company would never let him leave, with all that he'd been party to at their research facility, but he'd been slowly demoted to the most basic, limited research position available, next to the other three men who'd tested positive for the mutant gene. He might as well have been a janitor, as crappy as the projects were that he was assigned to after that.

The biggest problem, though, was that he knew...The man closed his eyes, a grim look on his face. He knew that as soon as his son started manifesting mutant powers, he would be picked up by the company, processed and turned into one of the few mutant subjects at the facility. The company had been told to limit, not terminate, their mutant experiments and they seemed to feel proprietary about the mutant children that their four employees had fathered.

He knew they'd take the boy and he knew what they'd do to him because he'd witnessed it first hand. Had even overseen some of the experiments. As disgusted as he felt about his own son being one of those mutant creatures, he just didn't think he could handle knowing the kinds of experiments they'd do on him when that day came.

* * *

There were exactly 30 ribs on each of the long walls. Well, "ribs" were what John called them because he didn't really know what the actual word for them was. The walls were metal on the interior of the shed and...well, ribbed with vertical lines like seams running up and down every four inches or so.

And the long walls had 30 ribs each. The short wall across from the door had 24 ribs and the wall with the door had 15 full ribs and 9 ribs over the door. No windows. The only light slipped through the crack under the door and another crack in the top back right corner where the roof didn't meet the walls properly. At night, the light was so dim it was almost suffocating. John had woken up on the hard concrete floor more than once in a state of panic because he couldn't see anything. That's when he'd first started carrying a lighter around. One that he'd stolen from his father who'd taken to smoking cigars a year ago, which turned out to be unpleasant for John in more ways than just having smoke blown in his face.

John was sitting in the back left corner of the shed, his knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, flicking his lighter, **click**, on..._click_, off…**click**, on…_click_, off...It was winter and the shed was freezing cold. John had learned over the last three years that metal isn't much of an insulator. During the summer it was stifling hot in the shed; during winter, it was numbingly cold. John's biggest problem was that he didn't always think to dress properly for being stuck there which was okay during the summer when he could remove most of his clothing. But tonight he was shivering in the cold with a thin, long-sleeved shirt on and a pair of jeans. Not the warmest outfit in his closet.

**Click**..._click_…**click**…_click_...**click**…

His mother and father had each handled differently the news of his "illness" (a term they'd quickly adopted when anyone asked if something was wrong) after his father had been tested at work. Where his father was angry, hurtful, and violent, his mother had completely lost her spark. She did everything automatically, efficiently but without really caring about it. She stopped speaking to John and hadn't touched him again after that evening when John's father brought home the test results. The only thing she said to him after that night was to tell him to do something–"Clean your room," "Clear the table," "Go Away!" Then she just wasn't there anymore.

_Click_…**click**…_click_…**click**...

It had been 3 years, 4 months since she'd left. She'd been at the school with him one day shortly after the school year started. He was six, just starting first grade, and she'd had to go to a conference with the principal to discuss his "behavioral problems" already. She'd sent him off to school the next morning and then packed and left. When he came home that night, she'd been gone. Every trace of her presence was erased from the house. Not just her personal belongings but family pictures, as well. John had been at a loss about what to do when he got home, so he hid in his room until his father got home, hoping he had misunderstood his mother's absence. His father had been stunned at first but quickly became livid and spent most of the night raging and blaming John for driving his mother away. His father's drinking started a couple of days later.

_Click_…**click**…_click_…**click**…

3 years 4 months...  
That was 40 months...  
1217 days...  
29,208 hours.

He'd never bothered to try and figure out how many minutes it had been since he'd last seen his mother. It's not like it really mattered, anyway, he just didn't have anything else to do out here but count seams in the metal walls and think.

_Click_…**click**…_click_…**click**…

John loved staring at the flame. It was bright, warm. His gaze lost focus as he imagined what it might be like to wrap himself in it. Would it warm him up? Make him feel like he did before his whole world ended? Make him feel like he used to when he sat in Grandma's lap, her arms wrapped around him while she told him a story about knights and …. He swallowed the pain that always accompanied thoughts of his grandmother. He missed her so much.

His grandmother had died shortly after his mother left. Not that he'd been allowed to see her again. They'd kept him from visiting her at all once they'd found out that he would probably grow up to be a mutant. John clenched his jaw, his gaze focusing on the flame again...as if being a mutant were contagious or something. He'd been left to wonder if his grandmother would have accepted him had she known. He liked to think she would have but the older he got, the more he doubted it.

He shut off the flame and jumped up, restlessly pacing to the door and back, angrily. It seemed liked the only thing he felt anymore was anger and pain. Pacing helped him burn off some of the rage he felt inside but the shed wasn't exactly roomy enough to do much pacing. Plus, once it got dark, he'd be stumbling over everything, something he knew from experience since he'd tried it a couple of times when he just couldn't sit still anymore. Shin bruises weren't exactly pleasant.

He stopped as he came to the back wall, staring blankly at the metal in the dim light. There was a wheelbarrow leaning up against the wall in the corner and a couple of dusty boxes with various partial cans of paint, left over from some house project long ago. John shivered in the cold. Dark and cold. Fucking dark and fucking cold. The rage inside suddenly welled up and he started kicking violently at the metal wall.

"Stupid...fucking...shed." Each word was punctuated with another kick.

"Stupid...fucking...mutant...crap...Stupid...fucking..." John gave a little sob as the anger drained away as quickly as it had overwhelmed him. "...father," he whispered as he hit the metal with the side of his fist and then leaned his head against the freezing wall, breath rasping. He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, catching his breath and then pushed himself away from the wall. He gave another half-sob, half-laugh as he saw the damage he'd done to the metal.

"Piece of shit shed," he whispered, looking at the multiple dents he'd made with his foot. It was so dark, he could barely see but the dents were obvious, even in that dim light. If his father saw the damage he'd done...John shivered, looking around the shed for something to put in front of the dents. He finally decided to move the stacked boxes of paint into the middle of the back wall, successfully covering up the damage. He didn't think his father would ever move those boxes. It wasn't like the old man did any kind of house upkeep anymore, anyway.

Moving back to his corner in the shed, John slid down the wall and drew his knees up again, resuming his earlier occupation.

**Click**..._click_…**click**…_click_...**click**…

The weed eater flickered into view behind the flame. John's lips twisted into a sneer as he thought about how stupid it was to play with fire in a small shed full of gas-powered lawn equipment. But then he figured that if he managed to blow everything up, he'd be doing himself a favor.

His father was a mean drunk, which was saying something because he wasn't ever really nice to John anymore anyway. John seemed to be caught in the middle of his father's self-destructive cycle–-John's mother left, his father started drinking, his father took it out on John, the drinking degraded his work performance, he got in trouble at work, he started drinking more, he took it out on John...and so on. John figured it wouldn't be too long before his dad lost his job completely and dreaded the day his father would be cut loose and left to spend his days at home, waiting for his son to return from school each afternoon. It was bad enough dealing with dad in the evenings,John couldn't imagine coming home to him every day. Yeah, maybe blowing himself up would be better.

But he didn't really believe that. John liked breathing, he liked the idea of what life _could _be and knew that if he could survive this, just bide his time until he could get out of here, then it'd be okay.

_Click_…**click**…_click_…**click**…

Christmas vacation. Dad's drinking was always worse when he didn't have to go to work. He'd start as soon as he got home from work and sometimes didn't stop until a day before he had to go back. John thought that at times his father would deliberately stay just sober enough to find reasons to punish John. The house isn't clean enough. Supper's not ready. The lawn's not mowed. His grades weren't good enough. He was late getting home. His mother left because of him...

But the upside was that his father sometimes drank himself into a stupor that left him incapable of thinking clearly or remembering. John liked those times because he could move pretty freely around the house then, eat what he wanted (when there was food), watch TV or just generally act like things were normal except for the drunken man sometimes sprawled across the couch or floor, mumbling to himself.

Even better was when his father drank himself unconscious. John would steal money from his father's wallet and leave–go eat, meet Jason at the video arcade and play until he had no money left, buy CD's or comics (he had a stash hidden in his room), or go to the movies. He didn't have a curfew those nights because his father never woke up before morning when he drank that hard.

_Click_…**click**…_click_…**click**…

He still had a twenty he snagged from his father's wallet yesterday. What could he do with it? Maybe get some new music–he'd been thinking of picking up that Gravity Kills CD that came out last year. He could do that and maybe catch a matinee with Jason.

_Click_…**click**…_click_…**click**…

John's thoughts turned to his closest friend, Jason. He was the perfect type of friend for John because he never asked questions and he never acted nosy about anything. Never commented about the bruises or marks he'd see when John's sleeve hiked up, never pressured John about being invited over to his house, never acted surprised or upset when John would suddenly look at his watch and then bolt from the arcade in a rush without even saying goodbye. He was just there when John was able to hang out and they talked about things that didn't matter much–-music, cars, schoolwork they should be doing, movies they'd seen, books or comics they'd read.

_Click_…**click**…_click_…**click**…

They'd met in first grade, both of them having to clean erasers after school one afternoon. John was never quite sure why Jason had taken to him but he didn't question it, either. They both liked similar things–-the same kinds of cars, same kinds of movies. Jason had quite a comic book collection that he introduced John to and he never seemed to mind sharing them. They both got in trouble regularly, although Jason never showed up the next day sporting new bruises or moving more stiffly than usual.

They'd grown into similar tastes, as well, although their opinions differed sometimes on some things–which car was the fastest; whether Die Hard 3 was as good as Die Hard 1 (Die Hard 1was definitely better because it had more explosions); which comic book hero was the best. They had good-natured arguments over these things but agreed readily on music and which movies to watch.

Jason was probably the only reason he stayed sane these days.

A growl of hunger in his stomach made John painfully aware that he'd been sitting that position too long. He stirred, shifting his butt and stretching his legs out. He wished again that he'd thought to wear a heavy sweater that morning. John sighed and lay down on the cold, concrete floor wrapping his arms around himself and bringing his knees up to his chest for warmth. The light was completely gone by this time, darkness pressing in from all sides. Maybe he should try to sleep.

Not even five minutes later, he was sitting up again, shivering, back pressed into the corner, flicking his lighter. **Click**..._click_…**click**…_click_...**click**…

He hated the cold and the dark. He hated that he didn't think he would ever feel warm again. Not since his grandmother had died. It was like the cold darkness inside of him was consuming more and more each day and he couldn't escape it. It was like his soul was frozen and he thought that he would give anything he could to figure out how to warm it up again.

_Click_…**click**…_click_...**click**…

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks again to **schwimmschik **who forced me to make this a better chapter!! Thanks also for the review from **otterwarrior16**.


	3. Trains

Cold Comfort Part III: Trains

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**train**

_n. _an orderly succession ; accompanying or resultant circumstances : aftermath; a line of combustible material laid to lead fire to a charge; a connected line of railroad cars with or without a locomotive

_v. _to form by instruction, discipline, or drill; to teach so as to make fit, qualified, or proficient; to make prepared (as by exercise) for a test of skill; to aim at an object or objective

* * *

_Eleven Years Old_

"Hey."

"John! How _are_ you?"

"Ok. You?"

"Good." Pause. "You know I tried to call a few times...."

"Yeah. My dad's not real good with the message thing, ya know."

"Maybe _you_ should just call when you need to talk...or want to talk. Whatever. You know what I mean."

Silence.

"Sure."

An indiscernible feminine voice in the background.

"Hang on...What mom?" A laugh. "Nah. But Mark can fix your remote for you."

"Sorry bout that. Man, Mark brought his Dreamcast over with NFL 2K. It'd be great if you could...."

"Jason..." A sigh and then silence. "Listen, I gotta go. I'll catch ya later."

"Uh...okay." Pause. "Hey, John?"

"Yeah."

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah...bye."

John pushed the "off" button on the phone and expelled a breath, leaning back against the wall behind his bed. He wasn't sure why he bothered calling Jason anymore. He rubbed his thumb rhythmically against the buttons on the phone, outlining each one, absentmindedly. Their friendship had devolved from weekly phone calls about their usual favorite topics into monosyllables and multiple interruptions by Jason's family or his new best friend, Mark.

_Mark_. John clenched his jaw and then suddenly threw the phone violently against the opposite wall causing a loud crash that seemed to shake the whole trailer.

"What the hell was that, boy!" came a slurred shout from the other room.

"Nothing!" John shouted back, angrily.

"If you broke something...." his father left the threat unfinished.

"Yeah? Get up off your drunk ass and come find out." John muttered as he slid off his bed and crossed the room in two steps to squat next to the phone.

Miraculously, it was undamaged. The lid to the battery compartment had popped off and batteries were scattered on the floor but everything else seemed to be fine. John put it all back together and watched the screen light up as the phone came back on. _Searching for base_...._Handset 1_. He released the breath he'd been holding, sneered at himself and got up to put the phone back on it's charger in the kitchen. The smell of cigar smoke and booze wafted in from the living room where his father was watching something violent on TV.

Back in his room, John flung himself on his bed, propping his back against the wall again with a slight grimace as he felt a bruise twinge. He slipped the lighter out of his pocket and started flicking it, staring at the flame and wondering how quickly the trailer would burn from only one point of ignition.

***********************

The stick tapped against each wooden slat as John ran it along the fence that bordered the sidewalk. His backpack was slung over his left shoulder and weighted down with school books and homework.

Tap...tap...tap....Mrs. Grueber's house....

It hadn't really been a bad day at all, although he'd almost played hooky that morning since he had an English test he didn't study for. But he'd done pretty well on the test, he'd only gotten in trouble once during the day (which might have been a personal record) and he'd managed to get that dickhead Michael suspended by framing him for a practical joke he'd played on Mr. Laynard that involved ants, rubber bands, and about 20 packets of honey. John grinned at the mental image of their teacher dancing rather frantically around his desk at the front of the room.

Tap...tap...tap....The Wallaces' house....

His eyes flicked to the neatly trimmed yard fronting an old, but well-kept house. It kinda reminded him of the house Jason lived in, except it wasn't nearly as big, of course. But it had the same well-kept look. The same kind of house he'd lived in until early last year.

John had never figured out how his father managed to keep his job while slowly falling apart. He got the impression that his father had been demoted as low as possible shortly after he'd tested positively as a carrier of the mutant gene. He didn't know why they didn't just fire him, although the rate of pay he was currently drawing probably wasn't much better than someone on unemployment. At least that's what his father claimed whenever he got his pay stub. They'd lost the suburban house and the luxury car, trading it in for a trailer home and some old beater that needed regular mechanical work done on it. New school and too far away from Jason to really remain friends. John had known as soon as his father told him they had to move that Jason would find a new best friend before too long....

"You're thinkin' too hard if it makes you scowl like that."

John jerked his head around in surprise, looking for the owner of the voice. There wasn't anyone in view but John was amazed to see that he'd passed three more houses and was only about a block from the trailer park. He was standing in front of Mr. Norman's house. Mr. Norman was known for being a weirdo and John had never spoken to the guy before. He wasn't actually sure he was talking to him now since he still couldn't see anyone. Puzzled, he scanned the yard again, even looking up at the roof of the house, just in case.

He heard a snort and then the voice was saying, "You'd think he was talkin' to a bird the way he's lookin' up at the sky. Down _here_, junior."

His eyes dropped to the ground and then widened when he saw the old guy pinned under what he'd originally thought was some old, junky shelf ready for the dumpster. John's face settled into a look of disbelieving amusement.

"Nice place for a nap," he said with a smirk.

"Quit bein' a smart ass and help me get out from under here," Norman growled, pushing futilely against the shelf.

"Don't strain yourself, old man," John said, hopping over the short fence.

Dropping his backpack on the ground, he walked over to the prostrate man and grabbed the wood that he could now see was too wide to be a regular shelf. It was just wood, though, so he expected to easily lift it off the guy.

"What the...?!" John huffed, in surprise. "What the hell is this made out of? Cement?!"

"Aw, c'mon. A strapping, young feller like yourself...can't even move a little piece of wood like...this?" Norman grunted as he pushed up with John.

Together they managed to lift the wood enough for Norman to slide out. John dropped it quickly with a resounding thud.

"How did you...?" John started only to be cut off with a gruff "Don't ask!" from the older man. John shrugged and turned for his backpack.

"You ain't getting off that easy, boyo." Norman said to John's back.

John turned back, looking at Mr. Norman with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. The older man put out his hand. "Name's James Norman. You can call me Norman, though. Most people do. Thanks for the help, son."

John took the proffered hand, a little surprised. "John Allerdyce."

Norman looked him up and down and then raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed you could even lift that thing. You're nothin' but skin and bones, boy."

John just shrugged again, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"What's it for?" he asked, pointing with his chin towards the rectangle of wood.

Norman didn't answer, just looked at him for a moment, assessing, then said, "Here, help me carry this inside."

John glanced at his backpack, considering, and then turned and squatted on one end of the wood, grabbing either side. Once Norman was set, they both lifted. John was relieved to find that it was much easier when they were sharing the weight more equally.

They carried it up the porch steps and set down one side. John balanced the wood as Norman opened the door and stepped inside to get something to hold the door open.

With the board upright, John could finally see where the extra weight came from. There was a metal frame attached to the underside, apparently strengthening the rectangle of wood. His curiosity was increasing by the minute. He just hoped it didn't turn out to be some lame explanation like Norman was planning on using it to stiffen his mattress. Or put legs on it and using for his dining room table. John smirked at the thought. And then lost his grin as his imagination turned to darker thoughts. Norman was known for being strange. What if he kidnapped people and kept them in the basement. Maybe this was some strange torture device...His thoughts were interrupted as Norman returned and picked up his end of the wood again. John quietly laughed at himself for being silly and picked up his end. Carrying the thing upright was a bit harder, but they managed to get it through the door and into the living room before needing to set it down again.

Norman disappeared again, to shut the front door and make sure the path was clear and all the appropriate doors were open. John braced the wood again, breathing heavily, and glanced around the room curiously. It looked like most living rooms did. There was a couch, an overstuffed chair, a television and various end tables scattered around the room. He saw a bookshelf against one wall with a detailed model of an F-14 fighter plane sitting on it, something he'd love to take a closer look at. Most of the tables had some sort of clutter on them–a pile of unopened mail sat on one small table near the door, magazines with picture of trains were strewn across the coffee table. What _was_ odd, in John's opinion, were the miniature figures and what looked like a toy house sitting on one table near the large chair.

His perusal of the living room was interrupted by Norman's return.

"Alright, we got a clear path," the older man said, rubbing his hands together and grabbing his end of the board again.

"Nice F-14," John commented, turning back to the wood frame. Norman snorted and then lifted and they started shuffling through the living room toward the back of the house.

"My son gave that to me for Christmas one year." There was a grunt as Norman accidently bumped into the doorjamb on his way through. "I make model trains and I guess he didn't think there was a difference." He gave a breathy chuckle.

They'd moved into the kitchen now and Norman was angling them toward an open door at the back with a sickly yellow light feebly brightening the dark doorway.

"We have to negotiate some stairs, so watch your step."

"Stairs!" John breathed, ending in what sounded embarrassingly like a squeak to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual, "Where does that lead?"

Norman peeked around the wood, looking at John curiously. "The basement."

John's heart lurched and he stopped dead, indecisive. Norman's look changed from curiosity to amusement, ending in a wicked grin.

"Sure. That's where I have the bodies, of course." He laughed heartily at John's wide-eyed expression of alarm.

John's eyes narrowed and he could feel the heat creeping up his neck into his face as Norman dropped the wood frame and placed a hand on the wall to hold himself up, shaking with hilarity.

John dropped his end of the frame with a loud thump, glaring daggers at his amused host. Crossing his arms, he said, "I'd like to see you get this downstairs by yourself."

"Alright. No need to get huffy, boyo." Still shaking with mirth, Norman wiped the tears from his eyes.

"I figure we're even now since you laughed at me outside. Sides, you shoulda seen the look on your face." Norman continued chuckling to himself as he picked up the wooden frame again.

John picked his end up again, trying to act irritated but feeling a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Norman's chuckle was contagious and this kind of reminded him of being with his grandmother. He hadn't felt this way in a long time.

The basement was truly awe-inspiring. It was like stepping into a miniature world. There were train tracks all around the room, running through miniature fields and villages, disappearing into tunnels and even some that rose up toward the ceiling to traverse the room suspended overhead. John immediately realized that the miniature figures and "toy" house from the living room were actually pieces of the fantastical world Norman had created in his basement.

He felt a sharp tug on the wood and realized he'd almost stopped completely to stare, open-mouthed, at the amazingly detailed scenes surrounding him. Here was a mountainside covering the wall, rising up halfway to the ceiling. A mountain goat was perched on a ledge, munching on some grass and a couple of deer stood by a stream near the train track, poised for flight as they looked up, startled by some unseen intrusion. Over there was a miniature playground with several little children swinging and climbing on the monkey bars. One little boy had fallen and skinned his knee, his mother bending over to comfort him. The train track ran behind the park, like a thread that tied everything together. John was stunned at the details he could see from the middle of the room and hoped he got the chance to look at everything up close before leaving.

They passed from the miniature world into a spacious workshop, setting the wood on the cement floor with the metal frame down. They both stepped back, John looking around curiously. There were work tables along one wall with various tools and half-finished projects strewn across the surfaces. One section of the workshop was for wood working, various tools and saws ready for use. A short stack of wood panels lay next to the table saw. John was amazed at how large the basement was and felt a pang of embarrassment again in thinking that Norman might have been some kind of serial killer.

"Yep, I got 427 bodies down here," Norman said with a chuckle. John grinned at him, staring at the various projects and itching to go back to the train room and examine everything. Norman's chuckle turned into a smile, a speculative look reaching his eyes. He led the way back into the train room, saying, "I always feel like Gulliver when I step into this room."

At John's quizzical look, Norman asked, surprised," You've never heard of Gulliver's Travels?"

The next hour and a half were spent looking over the miniature scenes and watching the trains run as Norman alternated between commentary on his trains and their settings and condensed versions of the stories from Gullivers Travels. When Norman invited John to stay for supper, he reluctantly admitted he should get home, knowing he was probably already in trouble with his father.

Norman grunted. "Well, guess I'll have to make you body number 428 then."

John just rolled his eyes, replying, "I've got lots of homework to do tonight," trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Heck, he expected anything Norman was cooking would be better than the tuna mac or canned soup he'd find waiting at home. Or the fist, belt, and raised voice.

"I tell ya what," Norman said. "I'll let you leave now but you have to promise to come back and help me with this project."

John's heart leapt at the idea of coming back, but he crossed his arms and tried to look casual. "You haven't even told me what the project is," he said with a defiant smirk.

Norman gave him a lopsided grin and began ushering him to the door. "Come back tomorrow and you'll see."

Ain't nothing gonna keep me away, John promised himself. The realization that he was actually looking forward to tomorrow caught him by surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he'd anticipated getting up the next day.

***********************

"_Doll_house?! Dollhouse." John was shocked and a little disappointed. He had been sure that Norman was making another train scene and that he might be able to help him build it. Why the heck would Norman want a _doll_house? And it was so..._big_.

They were in the kitchen sharing a plate of cookies that had been given to Norman by Mrs. Grueber from down the road. John was sitting at the kitchen table, his backpack on the floor at his feet, and his third cookie in hand. Norman was leaning against the counter, watching the emotions chase across John's face with mild amusement–disappointment and puzzlement seemed to win.

"I promised my granddaughter for years that I would make her one but never seemed to find the time. So I'm making the time now."

"Why doesn't _she_ help you with it?" Strangely enough, John wished he hadn't asked the question as soon as it left his mouth. He pictured some girl fumbling around in the workshop, not liking the idea at all.

It was the first time John had ever seen Norman look completely serious, with a hint of sadness brushing his features.

"My son and granddaughter were killed in a car wreck last year. She'd just turned eleven." Norman sighed, looking away from John for a moment, silent. John looked down, feeling his gut wrench. He didn't know why the thought occurred but he almost wished he could trade places with her. She had someone who cared for her and missed her and he didn't guess he would ever have that–woulda been better if he'd been the one who'd died instead of Norman's granddaughter. Before his mutation kicked in....

"What was her name?" John asked quietly.

"Valerie." Norman smiled fondly. "She had a fiery temperament. And stubborn...she wouldn't back down from anything. And she loved to dance–nothing formal like ballet, just dance to whatever that crappy music is you kids listen to these days. I did get to teach her how to jitterbug, though." His smiled widened briefly before turning grim. "They were coming over for the holidays. Kind of a silly thing we did, I suppose, since they lived just outside of the city here. But they'd come out every year during Christmas time and stay for the week as if they were visiting from out of town or something. Something was different this year, though–I got the impression that Mark wanted to discuss something with me." Norman paused a moment, lost in thought, and then shook his head to clear it.

"They never made it this time. They didn't even make it to the city limits–some drunk driver ran them off the road into a ravine. The car flipped and caught on fire somehow." Norman's face hardened. "Hit and run...they never caught the son-of-a-bitch, either, just found an empty bottle near the side of the road."

John watched Norman almost longingly, both of them silent, seeing things the other couldn't.

Then Norman suddenly shook it off and returned to his usual playful personality, pulling out the plans he had for the dollhouse and talking John through the various aspects of the project. It seemed like a huge job to John and Norman was expecting it to take at least six or seven months to finish.

***********************

It took one year total. John spent every chance he could with Norman helping him cut wood, glue, nail, paint, decorate and finally furnish the dollhouse that would be a dream house for any little girl's doll family. Sometimes they'd talk while they worked and sometimes they'd both be concentrating so carefully on their jobs that silence would reign.

Norman was a fountain of information and not selfish in the least about sharing it. His stories about being a soldier in WWII kept John's rapt attention until Norman would remind him good-humoredly to get back to work. Norman's ability to spin a yarn was captivating and John frequently found himself forgetting the miniature piece he was working on in favor of listening to his host instead.

But Norman didn't confine himself to his own personal stories. He frequently shared about books he was reading or ones that he'd read. John was sure that Norman chose some of the books he shared about to make a point with him about his life, although he didn't always catch on to what Norman might be getting at.

The one story that made a big impression with John was some Russian guy who'd spent years imprisoned in his own country for some fabricated crime. He'd written page upon page about what it was like being imprisoned there and how awful the conditions were, how unfair the system was, and how the people just resigned themselves to their fate with barely a whimper.

Some of the stories Norman shared from those books made John's blood run cold yet angered him at the same time. No one should be treated that way–just because the people in power _could_ do it didn't give them right _to_ do it. The Russian guy at the beginning of one of his books stated that he believed they'd deserved what they got because they didn't fight back when the government came for them. That quote alone kept John silent for ages, when Norman shared it, mulling over the concept.

Plus, John figured he understood where Norman was coming from when he shared about the Russian author. He already suspected that Norman knew his home life wasn't exactly happy, although he never asked about it or even brought it up. The previous night hadn't been a quiet one at home for John and he'd gone to school that day wearing a long-sleeved shirt even though it was late Spring and the weather was getting rather warm.

John was working on the wallpaper in one of the upper bedrooms–he had small hands, thin fingers, and could more easily work in the smaller spaces toward the back of the house. He had pushed his sleeve up to get it out of the way, not even thinking about the row of finger-shaped bruises exposed along his forearm. When Norman asked for the glue, John didn't even hesitate, handing him the bottle without looking up from the wallpaper project. It wasn't until he reached his arm back inside the house and saw the bruises that he felt a moment of panic. He glanced toward Norman, hoping he hadn't noticed anything and barely caught the hardened look on Norman's face before the older man turned back toward his own project.

Norman had talked about the Russian dude that evening.

***********************

By the time they really got into decorating the dollhouse, even Mrs. Grueber got involved. She'd come over one evening just before suppertime with some heavenly-smelling casserole that both Norman and John had wolfed down with great pleasure. They'd taken her to see the dollhouse, both feeling immensely proud of the paint job they'd done in the various rooms.

The house itself was a two-story painted on the outside in a pale yellow with white trim. Norman said that Valerie's favorite color had been yellow. He also said it was a Victorian home, which meant practically nothing to John, but seemed to delight Mrs. Grueber. She oohed and aahed over all the little details she could find on the exterior of the house–complimenting them on the roof shingles (each one painstakingly applied individually), and almost cooing over the ivy climbing up one of the side walls onto the roof. She approved of their flower bed plans along the front porch which they hadn't added yet.

But when they brought her around to the open back of the house, Mrs. Grueber had shrieked in horror, immediately scolding them for choosing such an unappetizing color for the kitchen and for using "clashing" patterns on the curtains and wallpaper in the living room. John and Norman just looked at each other and shrugged, both rather lost as to how patterns could clash.

She'd taken control of their decorating efforts from that point forward, making them redo the paint in several rooms, the wallpaper in one room, and making new curtains herself for the whole house, matching the colors and patterns appropriately for each room. She also reviewed their furniture plans, making sure they added in some obvious items not initially included–a vanity in the master bedroom, various plants throughout the house, and there should be a piano in the living room, of course.

When John's twelfth birthday came around in June, Mrs. Grueber had been coming over almost as regularly as John. He found the flirtation between Norman and Mrs. Grueber amusing and never failed to tease his friend about it when she wasn't there. But Norman was as feisty as John and gave back as good as he got. Their banter usually entertained Mrs. Grueber who frequently pretended that she found it all very childish but could never completely hide her amusement.

John's normal birthday plans included avoiding his father as much as possible in the hopes that it would be the one day of the year he wouldn't get any new bruises. This year was different. He had someplace to go where he'd be safe and actually enjoy himself. But he wasn't expecting a birthday celebration.

He hesitated in the doorway of Norman's kitchen, surprised. Both Norman and Mrs. Grueber were watching him expectantly. He blinked rapidly, swallowing a lump in his throat as he took in the birthday cake, presents, and balloons tied to the chairs. The last time someone had thrown him a birthday party was when he was six. It was a little overwhelming.

He dropped his backpack and left the room with a curt "Gotta go to the bathroom." Norman and Mrs. Grueber exchanged looks as he disappeared and then patiently waited for him to return, making small talk while he was gone. When he returned, Mrs. Grueber fussed over settling him into the "chair of honor," as Norman had dubbed it, and then made a show of lighting his candles on the cake. Both adults ignored his red-rimmed eyes and the way he avoided looking at them.

The cake was delicious and by the time John was handed the first present, he was back to his cocky self, bantering with Norman about their age difference and how rustic life must have been when Norman was twelve.

Mrs Grueber's present to John was a model airplane kit for a P-40 Tiger Shark. The plane was a WWII fighter with a shark's head design on the nose of the plane. John was ready to open it right then but Norman recommended he wait until they could take it downstairs and set it up or he might lose the small parts that were likely included. Mrs. Grueber gave John a quick hug, sneaking a kiss on the top of his head that left him blushing.

Norman's present was a book. One from the Russian author, but a small one rather than the huge books they'd discussed previously. This one was called _One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich_ and Norman had inscribed a note to John inside the front cover:

_To John,_

_The grandson I never had. Try to remember that fighting doesn't always have to include violence._

_With the greatest affection,_

_Norman_

John was left speechless for a moment. Holding the book in his lap, he stared down at the inscription, running a finger over it as he read it for the third time. Mrs. Grueber made a show of clearing the plates from the table and cleaning up the dishes noisily at the sink while John battled for control. Finally, he cleared his throat and thanked Norman for the present.

Norman smiled at him and gave him a half-hug, knowing John wouldn't appreciate more than that. Mrs. Grueber shooed them down to the basement insisting she clean up by herself so the boys could start on the fighter plane model.

***********************

Their work time for the next four months, alternated between working on the fighter plane model and finishing the dollhouse. Some evenings, they would focus on one project or the other, some evenings they did a little work on both, and occasionally Mrs. Grueber would work on the dollhouse decorations while the boys worked on the fighter plane.

Two days before Halloween, the dollhouse was finally completed. They'd spent most of the evening fiddling with some decorations that were refusing to cooperate and fixing some trim in one of the bedrooms that didn't look quite right. It was 8:30 before they stepped back to enjoy their finished project. It was very satisfying to see the fully decorated and furnished dollhouse, knowing how much work and effort they'd all invested in the project.

The fighter plane model was being displayed on an upper shelf in the workroom, having been completed the week before. John was extremely proud of both projects, knowing how much he had put into them. He was still debating whether he'd take the plane model home with him or just ask Norman to hang onto it for him. He'd love to display it in his room as a reminder of what he could do but he knew that if his father saw it, he'd assume he'd stolen it or something and probably break it out of anger. It should probably stay with Norman, just to be safe. It didn't hurt that leaving the model there gave him an excuse for visiting.

Mrs. Grueber brought down the cupcakes she'd baked in celebration and they shared a victory snack, enjoying the feeling of success and rehashing various aspects of making the house trying to figure out what could have been done easier or better. Talk of the dollhouse slowly developed into ideas Norman had for future projects and gave John hope that he'd be welcome to help out with those projects, as well. By the time John realized he had better get home, it was already well after 9 p.m.

"You realize we gotta clean this mess up tomorrow, doncha, boyo?" Norman asked him as he slid his backpack over one shoulder. "Gotta get the workshop organized for the next project."

John threw a smile over his shoulder as he walked briskly out the door. "I'll be by after school," he called to Norman as he bolted down the sidewalk. He jumped the fence and headed home as quickly as he could, feeling exhilarated at their accomplishment and excited at the prospect of working with them on another project.

*****************************

Mrs. Grueber reached the door as John was jumping the fence. She held up the little book for Norman to see.

"He forgot his birthday present."

Norman smiled, "Well, he _was_ pretty excited about finally finishing the dollhouse. Besides, he'll be back tomorrow."

He looked at her fondly, his smile faltering slightly as he noticed her troubled look. "Something wrong, Anna?"

She colored a little, looking uncomfortable. "I got a call from CPS today."

Norman's eyes narrowed, his smile gone. "Child Protection Services? Why?"

Anna hesitated for a moment. "I knew you didn't want to lose his trust by calling anyone, so I called. Last week."

"_Last_ week? And they already called you back?"

She nodded.

"And?" Norman looked like he was expecting bad news.

Anna sighed. "They said that they'd checked everything out, reviewed the situation and were satisfied that John was in a safe environment."

Norman's brows snapped together and his face looked positively thunderous. "_Safe_...?!" he cut off the rest, his jaw clenching.

"Why do you think they lied?" she asked quietly, worried.

Norman sighed, pulling her into his arms. "I don't know."

He held her tight, staring across the yard in the direction John had run, hoping he wasn't about to lose the boy to whatever was going on.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry this was so late. The story had an identity crisis (or maybe that was me, I get confused). It didn't want to be just biographical so it has become an adventure story with lots of biographical elements in it. It won't quite make it through Alcatraz but, if my muse cooperates, there will be a sequel that picks up after Alcatraz. For those who have been with me from the beginning, I did change the subheadings on the first two chapters from dates to ages because it just seemed easier to follow that way.

Thanks to all those who reviewed and thanks to **trovia** who helped me figure this whole change out (and for just being an awesome beta).


	4. Flash Point

Cold Comfort, Part IV: Flash Point

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**flash point**

the lowest temperature at which vapors above a volatile combustible substance ignite in air when exposed to flame; a point at which someone or something bursts suddenly into action or being

* * *

_Twelve Years Old_

William Allerdyce leaned against the edge of window, staring blindly at the dark trailer park outside. Defeat hung on his shoulders like a mantle. Looking at his watch again, he decided that John just wasn't going to make it home this time. It was well after 9 p.m. and he'd never been that late before. He glanced down at the pay stub clutched in his hand–a $335,000 automatic deposit into his account. He could do the math. It was essentially six years of pay at his old salary plus a little extra for what? Christmas bonuses? Mental trauma? He shrugged.

The huge sum was basically Jameson's severance package to him. He'd seen the other three carriers receive the same types of checks, as their children began to display their mutant abilities. Each carrier would receive a huge check, supposedly for years of "loyal" service, and then they would leave the company. Their children never left, though. Allerdyce knew. He knew that Jameson was just paying them all off to take their freak kids and use them in mutant experiments. As much as he hated his son for destroying his life, he couldn't let Jameson get ahold of him.

John's mutation hadn't manifested, yet, but apparently Jameson had decided not to wait this time. The last carrier to refuse Jameson's "severance package" had ended up dead and Allerdyce suspected he was just becoming too much of a liability. He was the last carrier left at work. Perhaps they were concerned he would get the same notions as the man who tried to protect his kid from the place. William Allerdyce smirked, for a moment, looking remarkably like his son. Jameson had no idea exactly what notions Allerdyce had about keeping his kid from them.

A movement outside caught his attention. The boy was running across the dusty trailer park toward their trailer. The anger started boiling inside William–he'd been worried about the kid and _the little brat was fine_! He dropped the check stub, walking toward the door, as John opened it.

****************************

His father slapped him, hard, as soon as he stepped inside the door, knocking him against the wall. John managed to catch himself against the trim on the dining room door to keep from hitting the ground, although his head was spinning. He refused to give his father the satisfaction of knocking him down completely. He let his backpack slide off his arm to the floor as he looked up at his dad from under his brow.

"Is that the best ya got, old man?" John sneered, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth as he straightened up against the wall. _He's _not_ going to ruin this night_, John told himself. His father's jaw clenched and his brow drew together at his son's taunt.

"You're late," he bit out.

"Like it matters," John threw back at him, watching his father warily. His father didn't disappoint, striking him again in exactly the same spot.

"It _does_ matter," was the hissed response, the scent of whiskey almost overpowering him as his father leaned in close to John's ear. His head was still turned to the side from the blow. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his father's eyes close briefly, as if he were in pain.

"I thought they..." it was whispered so quietly that John wasn't sure he heard correctly. The meaning was lost, however, as his dad grabbed his shoulders roughly and started shaking him, his head thumping painfully against the wall with each jerk.

"You go to school. You come home. Period. You don't hang out with your friends. You don't stop at the video arcade. You don't stop at the 7-11 for a fucking stick of gum. DO...YOU...UNDERSTAND?" By this time, his father was yelling and shaking him so hard that John felt completely disoriented. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would stop soon.

His father gave him one final shove and then moved away. The intense relief made his knees buckle but he caught himself against the wall and slowly opened his eyes, blinking to clear them.

His father was walking toward the cigar that was smoldering in the ashtray on the end table. John's heart thumped painfully as he watched his father turn back from the table, cigar in hand. He was rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the burning tip as if contemplating its purpose. John stood pressed against the wall, trembling with repressed emotion, as his father crossed the floor toward him.

He felt a spike of fear as his dad reached him, staring at the cigar. The tip was glowing red, a reminder of the angry mark it would leave behind after his father applied it to his skin. John stared at the red tip, imagined that he could sense it inside him, _feel_ it, make it grow into a flame...

It was as if time had slowed down. His father was watching him stare at the cigar. His eyes followed John's gaze to the cigar tip and then widened. The ember ignited. A small flame rose up, almost gently, until it was a mere 3 inches tall. John was mesmerized, wondering if he were imagining this or if he were actually controlling the fire.

Then everything began moving normally again. His father jerked back, tossing the cigar away from him and stomping on it somewhat frantically.

John tore his eyes away from the cigar and slowly looked up at his father. This was the moment they'd both been expecting and dreading for the past six years. Despite everything that had happened, John found himself wondering what his father's reaction would be now that it was real, finally. His eyes flicked back to the cigar. The tip looked black with no visible embers but he could still feel a tug of power inside him from it.

He didn't even see his father strike this time, the blow knocking him flat on the ground and stunning him for a moment. He could hear movement behind him, though. Wanting to prepare himself, he struggled to his hands and knees, looking back in time to see his father rip an electrical cord off a lamp and yank it out of the wall.

He could hear Norman's voice in the back of his mind telling him "They deserved it because they didn't fight back."

"Not...anymore!" John panted.

He pushed himself to his knees as his father reached him and lifted his chin, looking into his father's eyes defiantly. Before John could even reach for the cord, his father was wrapping it around his neck, pulling it tight. The look on his dad's face was chilling. Devoid of anger and fear, it was a mask of resignation–as if his father had realized that he had no other options.

"It's better this way," he heard his dad murmur, almost gently.

John scrabbled against his dad's hands, scratching and struggling to get his feet under him so he could kick out. Fighting for air desperately, his mind reached out for the cigar ember. As his vision started to dim, the spark inside him roared to life and John suddenly found himself on the floor again, coughing and sucking in jerky breaths.

He looked up as his vision began to clear, searching for his father again and trying to make sense of what happened. The roar of the fire was almost deafening but there was another sound John could hear that made his blood run cold. A horrifying screaming coming from the heart of the flames.

John caught his breath when he finally saw his dad–or what he assumed was his dad. A figure completely engulfed in flames flailed around on the floor near his father's chair. The scream was coming from the figure. He watched in morbid fascination as the figure stopped flopping and lay on the floor twitching, the horrible screaming sound finally stopping. He swallowed hard before looking around him at the growing fire.

The flames had spread through much of the living room and were heading down the hallway toward his father's room. With a jolt, John realized that, despite the growing flames and smoke, the air around him was clear and comfortable.

The power raging inside him suddenly felt exhilarating and he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the bruises and stiffness. Curious, he reached out his hand toward the flames in front of him and coaxed them along the wall until they covered the front door.

He lifted his hand up, flexing it and staring in fascination, as if it were the source of control. But he knew better. He could sense the flames inside him, _feel_ the fire as if it were part of him. As if it had always been there and always belonged to him.

The feeling was intoxicating and he waved his other hand, spreading the fire across the other side of the trailer. He turned around and lifted both arms, willing the flames to grow and spread out further, wanting them to destroy all the hateful memories he had of this place.

Sirens sounded in the distance, moving closer. He could still feel the fire behind him but he was so wrapped up in the joy of being in control for once that he didn't notice the flames creeping closer.

The realization came when he felt a blast of heat against his back. John looked around, shock slowly stealing over him as he saw just how out of control the fire had gotten. He thought of the twins next door and Mrs. Bower two trailers down and was relieved to hear the sirens pull up out front.

The flames were so intense, John couldn't even see his father's body anymore. He needed to get out. He put out his hand in the direction of the door and could again feel the pull of fire calling to him. This time he willed it to separate and make a path. But fatigue was starting to set in and John was finding that taming the flame was much more difficult than simply encouraging such a powerful force to fulfill its natural purpose. He refocused his mind, straining to make the fire obey him. Finally, his muscles trembling, he could see the flames in front of him dying out and leaving a path.

He stumbled out of the trailer, barely stepping off the porch before it collapsed. It was almost as loud outside as it had been inside. Three firemen near the front door froze as soon as John stepped out. He knew they realized what he was but he just didn't care. The nausea hit him like a brick and he dropped to his knees, wretching and shaking violently. The roar of the fire behind him was dying down. John could still feel the pull of power inside him but he was too exhausted to even think about it.

A light breeze dried some of the hair plastered against his face. He shivered, missing the feeling of warmth from the surrounding flames. People were hustling around, carrying equipment and shouting. John vaguely wondered if any of the other trailers had caught fire, hoping they hadn't but too weak to find out.

Someone finally seemed to realize he needed help because a blanket settled over him and he wrapped it around himself thankfully, shaking uncontrollably. He felt someone pick him up, thought he heard someone telling him to "hang in there, boyo," and felt like crying because it made him think of Norman. He was too tired to cry though and as the person carried him across the smoky trailer park, he slipped into unconsciousness before they reached the waiting ambulance.

*****************************

An unremarkable black car sat parked across the street from the trailer park, two houses down. The two men inside impassively watched the hustle of firefighters, EMS checking people over, and the small crowd of nosy neighbors at the gate. One of the men held a cell phone to his ear.

"No, sir. Fire Department's already here and EMS. Yes, I would guess his power _is _fire related. Not sure but it looks like he's being sent to the hospital. It definitely is their trailer, sir. Nope, not yet. Will do."

The other man looked at him with a question on his face.

"We're to verify the carrier's status."

"And the target?"

"He's going to be tied up in the system for now. There'll be time."

They watched as an ambulance pulled out of the trailer park and headed back toward the freeway, sirens howling and lights flashing.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks again to trovia for helping me refine things. And thanks for the awesome reviews!


	5. Alone

Cold Comfort, Part V: Alone

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**alone**

separated from others; isolated; exclusive of anyone or anything else

* * *

_12 Years Old_

Everything was a blur the week after he'd killed his father. He'd woken up alone in the hospital and after two days of anticipation, decided that it had been wishful thinking that Norman had carried him to the ambulance. Wishful thinking that he'd show up at the hospital.

His first mistake was waiting to get better. He should've slipped out the first chance he got, however he could. Initially, they'd just posted a policeman outside his door but he'd woken on the second morning to find restraints on his wrists, securing him to the bed and limiting his movement.

Infuriated and scared, he tugged uselessly at the padded cuffs.

A plainclothes detective showed up the following afternoon to ask him some questions about the fire. The questions had been surprisingly innocuous, skirting the main event as if he hadn't actually killed someone two nights ago. The cop didn't press him about the bruising on his face or around his neck. When he'd asked, John pointedly stared at the ceiling, not saying a word and the policeman had moved on to another loaded question.

"Ok, tell me about the fire. How did it start?"

"He dropped a cigar."

The pen froze over the small notebook for a moment before scratching across the page again.

"Was he drunk?"

John just shrugged and looked toward the window, wishing the cop were gone. He heard a sigh and the sound of pages flipping, then silence.

"This'll be a lot easier if you cooperate a little more."

John actually snorted at that, turning a disbelieving look on the detective. He wanted to yell, 'Easier?! How could _any_ of this be easier?' He bit his tongue, instead, returning his attention to the ceiling again, staring at it as if it held the answers to life itself on its stained and pitted tiles.

"Is there anyone else? Another family member? Your...mother? Someone to take care of you?"

John felt a pang at the question, thinking of his mother, then Norman. "No." He closed his eyes, trying to keep his breathing even and twisted his wrists in the restraints, testing them...again.

"I can't help you if you won't give me anything."

Silence.

"We know what you are. A couple of firemen gave statements."

Silence.

"Orphanage is out. No one's gonna adopt you and the orphanage won't have the...facilities to...take care of you."

"Control me, you mean!" John hissed, eyes flying open and flashing angrily at the cop.

For the first time since the detective had arrived, John took a good look at him. He was probably in his mid-thirties with short brown hair, a rather bland-looking face and kind eyes. He didn't look unsympathetic. John felt a little spark of hope.

"Let me go, then." John said quietly, almost pleading. The detective looked sad.

"You're 12 years old. No one's letting you go anywhere by yourself." It was a statement and John could tell there was no room for debate in the cop's mind. The hope died and he turned back to the ceiling, stubbornly ignoring the detective again.

"It's a debate between a juvenile detention center and the 7th floor here." There was a moment of silence as the detective let his statement sink in. "You know what's on the 7th floor here, don't you?" He asked quietly.

John shivered. _Of course_ he knew about the 7th floor. They'd made jokes about it at school since he was in third grade–instead of telling someone they were crazy, it was "you belong on the 7th floor Memorial." The psych ward. For nut cases. They'd lock him up and forget about him. He gave the cop a panicked look.

The detective rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed again. "Look, I'm sure it's a difficult thing to talk about and I can only guess how this all came about." His eyes flicked to John's neck before continuing. "I get that you don't want to talk to me and that's fine, but there's a psychiatrist coming in tomorrow to see you. I really suggest you think hard about actually talking to her when she shows up."

John nodded, blinking back tears and shifting his eyes away from the cop. He heard a soft "Hey!" and looked up at the man next to his bed.

"Just _talk_ to her and it'll be okay, I promise," the man said, earnestly, holding John's eyes a moment and nodding encouragingly. John nodded back, not trusting himself to speak.

The cop was all business again, snapping his little notebook closed and slipping it into a breast pocket before giving John another sympathetic look and heading out the door with a final nod.

Then there was nothing to do but wait. John hated waiting. He counted and recounted the ceiling tiles. Mentally connected the pits in the ceiling to produce abstract designs. Watched a couple of planes fly by out the window.

Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, a nurse came in and turned on the TV. He ignored it in favor of wishing his mutation were more practical for a situation like this and wondering what powers would be most effective for breaking out. Anything to avoid thinking about the 7th floor.

He tried, again, to produce the fire himself, thinking he would jump out the fucking window if he could just get himself loose. He didn't even produce a spark and couldn't recapture the same internal feeling of power he'd had at the trailer. He was slowly becoming convinced that he'd never be able to repeat what he'd done, and that left him feeling even more depressed and afraid.

Sometime after supper, a nurse came in and fiddled with his IV. John barely paid attention, staring blankly at some sitcom on TV. When his eyelids grew heavy, he didn't think anything of it, just let go in relief and fell asleep.

***************************************

He awoke to the sound of someone alternately screaming and sobbing loudly. His first thought was that another patient died in one of the nearby rooms but, while the sobbing sounded heartbreaking, the screaming was terrifying, sending a chill up his spine every time he heard it.

His eyelids felt glued shut and he rubbed them before forcing them open. White ceiling. What's new? He blinked groggily, then frowned. Something didn't seem right. He rolled to his side and pushed himself to a sitting position, shivering as his bare feet hit the cold tile floor.

He realized with a jolt that his hands weren't strapped down anymore, but then he took in his surroundings and felt panic creep in. He wasn't in a regular hospital room anymore. The bed he was on was more a prison-style bed–metal frame with attached springs and a thin mattress on it. It was placed in a corner of the room, bolted to the floor. There was no other furniture in the room, no windows. Just four walls of white-painted cinder block and a single metal door with a small round window.

"No...No...NO!"

He didn't even realize he was saying it out loud as he shoved himself off the bed and stumbled to the door. He tugged at it uselessly, rattling the doorknob.

"Hey!" He pounded on the door with the side of his fist, looking through the glass for anyone who would listen. A bloodcurdling scream was his only answer. "This is WRONG! He said I would talk to a psychiatrist first! HEY!"

Five minutes later, he turned and sank to the cold floor, his back against the door. He wrapped his arms around his knees, shivering. Alternately feeling hurt for believing the cop and berating himself for being so gullible, he sat on the floor and waited for his chance. The only thing he had left to believe was that he would find a way out.

* * *

**A/N:** As usual, my beta **trovia** is beyond amazing in her edits and suggestions. Thanks to **.**, **the-raven-angel**, **Say No Evil**, **Raewolf**, **PlonkerOnDaLoose**, and especially** otterwarrior16** (reviews on every chapter--wow!) for the awesome reviews!!! (Yes, I was catching up for all chapters since I didn't remember to thank y'all specifically on here last couple of chapters.)

I might actually update once more before the holidays. This one took awhile because my muse was being difficult and decided there must be another chapter added in after the last one. It really just started out as a little segue between the two and then turned into a full-blown chapter. So, anytime there are long waits between chapters, you can just blame my muse (she's tough, she can take it).


	6. Blending In

Cold Comfort, Part VI: Blending In

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**  
quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**blend**  
to mingle intimately or unobtrusively; to combine into an integrated whole; to produce a harmonious effect

* * *

_13 Years Old_

Cold, stale pizza. Dug out of a trash can. Yep, this was definitely the high life, John thought wryly, snagging a slice out of the pizza box before tossing the box back into the dumpster behind the pizzeria. When he'd escaped from the hospital in his home town, he'd headed straight for New York City, figuring he could get lost in the huge population there. He also thought there might be other mutants that he could hook up–surely fellow mutants wouldn't think of him as a freak. It hadn't taken John long to realize his mistake. Mutants living here were as wary of contact as he was and he'd never been accepted into any of the rather tenuous mutant clans that roamed the city.

Last night had been another bad night in a long run of bad nights. He'd been kicked out of yet another homeless shelter and was reduced to dumpster diving again for supper when he heard someone scream. Normally saving someone else's skin wasn't very high on his priority list but he'd had a crappy week (oh, who was he kidding, a crappy eight years). Maybe he'd have a reason to burn something.

He dropped the unappetizing slice of pizza and headed down the alley. There weren't any lights this deep in the maze of alleys behind the shops and restaurants that fronted the main thoroughfares but John wasn't sure what he would find ahead so he simply gripped his lighter in his hand without igniting it. The screaming had long since stopped but John could hear voices ahead, in another alley to the left of him. He flattened himself against the wall and peeked around the corner, hoping to see what was going on.

He wasn't disappointed. The street lights from a large cross street shone down into the alley on two ugly-looking men, both of whom seemed to be searching for something or someone.

"Heeere, little girly, come on out," one of them sing-songed as the other kicked an empty box with his boot. "We promise to be nice to you if you come out now and behave."

John couldn't see a girl hiding anywhere in the alley but he recognized, from long years of practice, one or two places a small person might be able to duck into and avoid being seen. Or maybe she'd managed to escape down another alley without being noticed. He turned his attention to the two hoodlums vainly searching the alley. They were both pretty muscular but on their way to being flabby like they couldn't be bothered to work out anymore. One guy was wearing a muscle shirt to show off the tattoos decorating both arms. The other was slightly shorter and completely bald.

John could feel a stir of excitement as he prepared to enter the alley, his lighter ready. Since he hadn't heard any sounds from the person they were searching for, he assumed the girl had managed to escape. Which meant there wouldn't be any witnesses.

"Looking for someone?" John asked, stepping out with a cocky grin on his face. The two men looked up in surprise which quickly turned to irritation when they saw the short, thin kid standing alone. They separated to opposite walls, flanking John and started moving toward him.

"Beggin' for trouble, junior?" Tattoo Man asked, flexing his hands and cracking his knuckles in the process. Baldy looked at John with a nasty smile on his face, as if anticipating giving him a good beating.

"You don't have any idea what trouble is," John replied, his grin turning into a smirk as he raised the lighter in front of him and flicked the spark wheel igniting a small flame. The two men looked baffled at first, glancing at each other and back at John again.

"Is that supposed to scare us?" Baldy asked with a laugh. He rolled his shoulders and then both men came at John from either side of the alley, expecting to bring him down quickly and take out their frustration on him from having lost their first target.

"Nope." John responded, eyes narrowing. He waited until they reached a spot about three feet from him then said, "But this will!" His right hand shot up, a huge flame bursting forth. The men were thrown back halfway down the alley to lie unmoving on the ground. John kept a flame in his hand as he cautiously moved toward them, unsure whether they were conscious or even alive. They were both badly burned, their clothes singed and smoking. John tilted his head as he looked at them dispassionately, rolling the ball of flame around on his hand as if doing a magic trick. He was debating whether he wanted to make a couple of funeral pyres here or just leave them to their fate. They didn't really deserve a hero's "burial" but they didn't strike him as warranting another chance at life, either.

Before he could make a decision, a flicker of motion to his left had him spinning around, crouched and ready to throw another flame at whatever might be attacking him. He froze as he realized that the little girl these men must have been chasing was standing in front of him, staring at the flame in his hand as if mesmerized. He glanced at the two men on the ground and then straightened and extinguished the flame, keeping his lighter in hand just in case. Warily, he watched the girl as she looked over at the two bodies lying on the filth-strewn street. She looked like she was a year younger than him, maybe 12. At best, he expected her to go into shock or pass out. At worst, she would start screaming bloody murder and have someone come running in a matter of minutes. Either way, his best bet would be to leave before he got caught in the middle of something he couldn't escape.

But he didn't always do the smart thing and he knew it. He found himself unwilling to run away. Who knows, maybe he was hoping that she would realize that he'd saved her and be grateful. Not that his intentions were to save her but she didn't need to know that. Maybe he was hoping to walk away from this with a friend, for once. As soon as the thought struck him, he came to himself. "Idiot," he muttered, and turned to head back the way he'd come, hopefully to disappear before she came to her senses and started calling him a murderer.

"Wait!" Her cry stopped him. He stood at the end of the alley, his shoulders hunched and his head down, waiting. "You saved me," she said quietly.

He turned his head, looking back at her warily. "Yeah." Then he turned fully, watching in surprise as she began blending in with the wall and trash behind her. He thought he could see the outline of her form for a moment and then he couldn't see her at all. He heard a soft, rustling sound in front of him and saw another flicker of movement that he couldn't pinpoint. Then she was standing directly in front of him, fully visible. He flinched back slightly as she appeared, then stood silently, watching her.

"Like a knight in shining armor," she said, with a warm smile on her face. "I'm Ivy," she announced, linking her arm through his and tugging him along the alley toward the lights and traffic on the main street. John kept waiting for the voice in the back of his head to tell him not be stupid but to run as far away from this person as possible, but it was notably absent and he allowed himself to be pulled onto St. Vincent street and down several blocks to the apartment where she lived with her brother, her constant stream of chatter barely penetrating his brain.

He couldn't help but feel extremely nervous. His year in New York had taught him that no one helps anyone else, even if you shared the freak gene and that if someone were being overly nice, there must be an ulterior motive behind it. But he couldn't reconcile anything manipulative with the seemingly very friendly and open person beside him talking his ear off. Ivy hadn't even taken a breath since they'd stepped onto the busy street, explaining to him about where they lived, how much her brother was going to like him (yeah, right), and how they had plenty of room for him ....

"You don't have a place to stay, do you?" Ivy asked. John shook his head numbly, starting to feel rather stupid about going along with this and suspecting he would regret it in the morning when he found himself drugged, nude and dumped in some alley missing every single thing he owned, which admittedly wasn't much.

Except, her brother Nikki hadn't taken to him quite as quickly as Ivy seemed to expect, being old enough to recognize a street kid and potential problem when he saw him. Which, funny enough, made John feel a little better about crashing at their place. One year later, he was still "crashing" at their place, working as partners with them on their "freelance" jobs and as good as family.

Yep, in retrospect, it ended up being one of the smartest things he'd ever done.

* * *

**A/N:** Happy Holidays everyone! Short, I know, but I figured I'd get it out for you now. Again, big thanks to **trovia **for helping me fix the stuff that needs fixing. And thanks to **otterwarrior16** and **Say_No_Evil** for the reviews! Next update will be after the holidays sometime.


	7. Blood and Dragons

Cold Comfort, Part VI: Blood and Dragons

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**blood**

the fluid that circulates in the heart, arteries, capillaries, and veins of a vertebrate animal carrying nourishment and oxygen to and bringing away waste products from all parts of the body; the shedding of blood; the taking of life; relationship by descent from a common ancestor : kinship; blood regarded as the seat of the emotions

**dragon**

a mythical animal usually represented as a monstrous winged and scaly serpent or saurian with a crested head and enormous claws; a violent, combative, or very strict person; something or someone formidable or baneful

* * *

_15 years old_

The tall, thin figure stepped into the alley and crossed quietly to a door about midway along the brick wall. If there had been more light, it would be easy to see the smirk twist his full lips as he looked at the bars on the door. The man paused a moment, listening, and then he took a breath and walked through the bars and the door into the back room of the shop. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark so he scanned the room carefully while picking his way through the boxes and crowded shelves on the way through. A door marked "Office" was obviously his destination as he didn't even pause at it but phased right through to the other side.

After a moment's perusal, the man stepped around the desk and bent over it, pushing the chair out of the way gently. There might not be anyone around but there was also no reason in taking chances. A small shaft of light fell across one side of his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones, a rather long nose and thick, black lashes framing almond-shaped eyes that gave him an exotic look. The artificial light shining through the window cast an eerie glow on his skin. He tried to open one of the drawers but found it was locked. A small frown crossed his face, then a brief look of impatience. He closed his eyes and reached his hand through the drawer, feeling around for something. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he phased a set of keys through the drawer front. He looked around, checking for security cameras but, apparently seeing nothing, shrugged it off, turning to an old wood table.

A thick layer of dust covered the top of some surveillance equipment. A video screen showed the inside of a pawn shop. The camera slowly scanned the room from the entrance up front to the back cage where the employee would sit and then back again. The man stared at the screen with a look of concentration on his face, following the camera's progress. The most valuable items for sale (jewelry, antiques, rare books) would be kept in the cage. They stuck with the less obvious jewelry–gold chains, watches, simple rings–nothing too fancy, gaudy or obviously expensive because it was harder to resale. Antiques and rare books were only of interest when someone paid them to be interested. Tonight, they were interested in a rare medical book, probably worth a mint on the market, but for them it was worth another week's rent and food. As the camera panned to the back of the shop again, he could see a barrister against the back wall inside the cage.

To the cage, then. The thin man stood up and pressed the power button on the video recorder, another smirk playing on his lips. Apparently the pawn shop owner was too cheap to put surveillance around the whole shop, having faith in bars and locks to keep out thieves. He turned from the table and walked to the opposite wall where a small safe sat. Slipping the backpack off, he unzipped it and then unhesitatingly reached through the safe door, pulling out stacks of bills and dropping them in the backpack. When he was done, he zipped the backpack up, stood and slipped it back on. Starting toward the door, a glint of something metal caught his eye. On the corner of the desk was a Zippo lighter, an expensive one from the look of it, with a unique shark wraparound design. After a moment's hesitation, the man palmed the lighter and then crossed the room quickly, walking through the wall right beside the door.

On the underside of the surveillance table, a small red light, recently activated, flashed silently.

*******************************

John stood in the shadowed doorway, intently watching the building across the street. Peeling paint on the large window in front announce "Sal's Gold 'N Pawn" and the red blinking sign on the bar next door glinted rhythmically off the glass behind the bars on the windows and door.

Ivy shifted impatiently beside him and sighed quietly.

"I hate this part," she said.

John glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow. "C'mon," he said, tilting his head, "What could be more fun than standing around in a shitty part of town, freezing our asses off while your brother shops?"

Ivy snorted then stared at the window of the pawn shop, her eyes narrowing.

"See anything, shrimp?" John asked, fingering the bic lighter in his jacket pocket. A fire would be nice right about now. He hated the cold and the dark. Resisting the temptation, John turned to look at Ivy as she watched the pawn shop, her enhanced vision allowing her to see inside. He was still amazed sometimes that they'd taken him in at all, let alone treated him like a brother. He hadn't been the friendliest sort when they met, having been on his own for a year in a city not known for it's hospitality. His mind wandered, thinking about the past. Meeting the Chens and becoming part of their family. The various odd jobs they took and worked together, or separately–stealing high-dollar antiques for clients, the very occasional scam operation enticing some mark in with the promise of great reward only to trick him out of everything they could before disappearing. And when things got really rough, they'd resort to the traditional pickpocketing and breaking and entering. Sometimes he felt a pang of guilt, wondering what Norman and Mrs. Grueber would think if they knew but he felt, for some reason, that Norman would understand even if Mrs. Grueber were disappointed with it. Besides, he thought bitterly, what did it matter? He'd never heard from or seen Norman again after that night....

"Pyro?_ John!_" Ivy said urgently.

John jerked back to the present, looking at Ivy in surprise.

"Where were you?" she asked, giving him a quizzical look before heading across the street to slip through the now unlocked pawn shop door. John followed right behind her, his eyes only needing a moment to adjust before he was scanning the room looking for all available exits while simultaneously checking for things that would prove useful as barter or easily sold.

He didn't like that the only exits appeared to be the front door and, probably, the back alley door that Nikki phased through. The potential for being trapped made him feel a little uncomfortable but Nikki seemed to be at ease and they weren't planning on being there long, anyway. Get in, get the book, grab whatever else they might be able to resale and get out. Besides, he knew that Nikki would've already checked out the store security and done whatever he needed to so they wouldn't get caught.

The uneasy feeling persisted but he ignored it in favor of looking through the video games and portable game players in a glass case near the front of the shop. Ivy was checking through the cds and players a few shelves in. Probably looking for her favorite bands first, John thought with a little smirk. Nikki was inside the cage, door open, looking through a bookshelf against the wall. The antique book must've been there.

John had snapped up three games and two Game Boy Advances that looked good enough to hawk. They usually did pretty good at their regular spot on St. Mark's when they had a nice selection of personal electronics and music. Fourteenth St was better when NYU had just started a new semester–most of the freshmen were easy marks, especially with the game systems and cds.

Nikki stepped out of the cage with his backpack in hand, unzipped. He was carrying a large tome, apparently the rare book wanted by their client. He was looking down at it, as he walked through the cage door, shaking his head as he read the title.

"Check this out," he said, holding the book up for John and Ivy to see. "Of Men and Monsters: A Study of Strange Maladies and Physical Aberrations Presenting in Adolescents and Young Adults in the Past Century with Special Focus on Current Instances by J H Jackson." He recited for them.

Ivy wrinkled her nose. "When was that written?" she asked curiously. John was only half-listening. Ivy loved history and all that old crap. John found most of it boring as hell. He ignored the voice in his head calling him a liar–a dusty, old book could never compare to how Norman told a story. He shook his head in frustration. Memories of that year with Norman had been haunting him regularly the past couple of days. It was distracting and irritating.

"1887." Nikki replied, shaking his head again as he slipped the book into his backpack.

"Do you suppose it's about mutants?" Ivy continued. Nikki just shrugged, looking at the pile of cd's and the cd players she'd picked out.

"Oh!" Nikki paused, reaching into his pocket, then tossed something to John. "Now you can get rid of that crappy Bic you've been carrying."

John reached out and caught the item, looking down curiously. He felt a stab in his chest as he looked at the lighter. It was a Zippo with what must have been a hand-painted design on it–a shark head that wrapped around one side of it. It reminded him of the model plane that Mrs. Grueber had given him for his birthday. The one that Norman had helped him...He ground his teeth in frustration._ Move on, John!_

"Nikkiiiii...," he said, "You didn't _steal_ this, did you?" he asked in feigned disapproval. Ivy rolled her eyes but Nikki just chuckled, slipping the cds and players into the backpack. It would be a pretty good haul with everything they'd picked up that night.

"I'm keepin' the Bic, though. It never hurts to have a backup or two," John said, slipping the shark Zippo into his jacket pocket and tucking the Bic into his left back pocket. He already had one extra Bic in his right sock. He'd learned the hard way not to get caught without any way of making fire. He hated not being able to create the fire on his own but every attempt he'd made had failed and he'd stopped believing he could do it since that day in the hospital, anyway.

John tossed the games to Nikki, who caught them deftly and dropped them into the almost-full backpack as Ivy walked over near John to see what games she might want for herself.

Then, for the third time in his life, John's world came crashing down on him.

Nikki had his back to the cage, looking expectantly at John for the Game Boys, when a man burst through the cage door aiming a shotgun at them. Ivy turned in surprise, squealed and raised her hands, flickering into the background for a moment. John stared wide-eyed at the man, holding a Game Boy in each hand and wondering if he could risk dropping one to get to his lighter. He cursed himself for putting the Zippo into his primary pocket since he hadn't even checked it to see if it was full and usable.

Nikki turned toward the cage, holding his arms out waist high with the backpack in his right hand. He phased out briefly in fear and then solidified quickly, hoping the man was too nervous to notice that he and his sister had both defied normal human abilities. Unfortunately, their changes had been noticed by the man, who's eyes began to look wild and a bit panicked.

"What the hell do you freaks want from me!" the man yelled, waving his rifle a bit too erratically for comfort.

John turned his head slightly. The sound of sirens became clearer in the distance. "Police," he whispered urgently, wanting to kick himself for ignoring his unease earlier about their lack of escape routes. If the police got here too soon, they'd be stuck for sure. John had no interest in dealing with police again, ever.

Nikki nodded slightly, gently lowering the backpack to set it on the ground. He lifted his hands back up to his waist and debated how he was going to phase out and take this guy down without anyone getting hurt.

"What are you doing, freak! Why are you doing that!" the man asked with increasing hysteria in his voice. "Don't come any closer!"

"It was getting heavy. I just wanted to set it down," Nikki responded quietly, sounding amazingly calm to John's ears. John slowly moved his arms back and set the Game Boys on the counter behind him quietly while the maniac was occupied with Nikki. He suddenly wondered if he should cause some kind of distraction–Nikki must be planning to jump the guy somehow, so it might be better to get him to look toward John instead. Except that meant he'd be aiming toward Ivy, too, which was the last thing John wanted.

Before John could decide, Nikki tried to edge slightly toward the man who seemed to lose all reason and started shouting at Nikki to stop trying to melt his brain or something incoherent like that. Nikki calmly tried to explain that he wasn't a telepath. Ivy had covered her ears with her hands, crying, begging them to stop and staring wide-eyed between Nikki and the shotgun. John looked briefly at Ivy and started towards her when the sound of the shotgun roared in his ears causing him to grab Ivy and swing her around with him to duck behind a low shelf of stereos and speakers.

The silence was deafening for a moment before the wailing sirens reached John's ears again. He couldn't hear any movement inside the shop, just the sound of heavy breathing. He pulled the Zippo out of his pocket with a shaking hand and flicked the lid open before peeking around the corner of the shelf. Nikki was still standing at the glass case but his hands were no longer visible. The maniac with the gun was just standing in front of the cage with the shotgun slightly lowered, staring in shock at Nikki.

John glanced back at Ivy who was crouched on the floor, rocking gently, with her eyes closed and her hands still covering her ears. He stepped quietly out from behind the shelf and stood up as Nikki turned toward him, his hands covering his stomach with blood seeping out between his fingers. John felt a numbness sweep over him as he stared at Nikki's stomach, at Nikki's life slipping out of him in rivulets of blood. He raised his eyes to see Nikki looking at him with disbelief and shock.

"Ivy...," Nikki whispered before falling to his knees and then face first onto the floor. John stood rooted to the spot, stunned and shaking, staring at Nikki's unmoving form. The sirens were outside, lights flashing red and blue, bathing the shop in a kaleidoscope of colored light. The darkness and rage he'd kept at bay while he was with Nikki and Ivy surfaced and his face hardened as he looked at the shop owner over the glass counter now smeared with blood.

"He was attacking me," the shop owner said, desperately, looking at the young man lying on the floor and still clinging to the drooping shotgun. They were mutants, no doubt, but they were all so young–the one he'd killed couldn't be more than 19.

The shaken man looked up at the kid standing across the room and felt a stab of fear. The hatred and anger clouding the teenager's face was frightening. He didn't know what this kid could do but he didn't think he wanted to know. He raised his gun at the same time the boy raised his hand and flicked his lighter. A second before he could pull the trigger, a blast of heat and flame struck him full force and threw him back against the cage, screaming in terror and pain.

The police came through the front door just then, guns drawn and aimed at John, yelling for him to get down on the floor. John froze, indecision etched on his face, his lighter still gripped in one hand and a flame dancing on the palm of the other. There were three policemen standing in front of him, two more coming through the front door and he could hear noises in the back room indicating the likelihood of more police coming from the back. He was completely surrounded and totally fucked.

Take care of Ivy, John thought scornfully. Nikki should've known better than that...he couldn't even take care of himself. The best he could do was keep them distracted so Ivy could get away. He slipped the lighter in his pocket as he formed the flame into a dragon shape, slowly increasing its size as its wing spread out and neck arched. It was fearsome to see and the policemen seemed unsure of whether he had conjured up some sentient fire dragon to fight them. If the creature could think, it might not be happy about them shooting the mutant.

The five police in position in front of John, were joined by at least three more from behind him. He could hear the shuffling of feet and click of metal from their guns and it made his back itch but he continued manipulating the dragon, making it lift off and rise above him in a display of fiery anger as he stretched his arms wide.

"I don't want to have to kill you, boy," came a quiet voice and he could feel the presence of one of the cops directly behind him. He imagined the gun must be aimed directly at his head. He didn't really want to die but he owed Nikki and Ivy his life and he wasn't about to let Ivy get caught. The dragon figure reared back as if preparing to throw flames at the officers in front of John. Then he saw the front door to the shop open slightly, just enough for a small teenage girl to fit through. He dropped his arms, allowing the flaming dragon to die out as a feeling of relief washed over him.

It didn't last long. The police were on him in a heartbeat, forcing him to the ground, taking his lighter and putting handcuffs on him. John hoped Ivy would be alright by herself but wasn't comforted by his own experiences. He promised himself he would find her as soon as he could but didn't hold much hope on that happening, either. He didn't expect he'd ever be set free again. Jail, prison, mental institute. Dark and cold, every one of them. His mind shied away from the last one, still haunted by memories of his other experience in the psych ward.

He shivered at the thought as the police dragged him to his feet and took him to the waiting cars outside.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks once again to **trovia** for providing editing suggestions, a good sense of humor and distracting stories from a different fandom. Hope everyone had good holidays.


	8. Confining Places

**Cold Comfort, Part VII: Confining Places**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**confining**

to hold within a location; imprison; to keep within limits

* * *

_15 years old_

Police station, sheriff's office…sometimes the only difference was the attitude of the officers and deputies. This police station looked like most big city ones—lots of hustle and bustle, cheap plastic chairs for waiting and a big wooden desk with a harried-looking police officer standing behind it.

Not that Scott had been familiar at all with police stations until after becoming a teacher at Xavier's School for Gifted Students. Mutant High. His mouth twitched at the name. His class had come up with the nickname and it had certainly stuck. But being a professor (not to mention an X-Man) carried a lot of responsibility.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time he'd had to go to a police station to pick up a student. Or an orphanage, juvenile home, or mental institute. Professor Xavier tried to personally visit each student to invite them to the school but their enrollment had grown exponentially since Scott's days as a student and the Professor just couldn't spare the time anymore for every student.

Jean normally came with him, especially when the pick up was somewhere other than the student's home. But they were in the midst of Thanksgiving preparations at the school for those students who stayed through the holidays. The Professor had been adamant that he pick this one up as soon as possible, so Scott found himself standing alone in the police station waiting patiently for the desk officer to give him a moment. Apparently they were short-staffed…another trait most police stations seemed to share across the country.

"What d'ya need?" The policeman finally turned his attention to Scott, eyes narrowing when he saw the rather unusual eyewear. The officer relaxed a bit as he took in Scott's clean-cut face, polite smile and neat appearance.

"I'm here from the Westchester School. I believe our…Dean gave you a call about a young man you have in custody."

"Oh, the firecracker." The officer wrinkled his nose in distaste as he picked up a receiver and pushed a couple of buttons on the phone. After a moment, he said, "Hey, Frank. Bring that mutie up here…" Scott's jaw clenched as the officer continued. "Guy's here to pick him up."

Scott blinked in surprise, then frowned. "Don't you need to check my ID?"

The policeman shrugged and said "sure" in a bored voice, turning back to the pile of papers on his desk. Scott's frown deepened as the officer barely even glanced at his drivers license before handing it back.

"Do you have no concern whatsoever for the safety of the child in your care?" The officer gave him a disbelieving look, so he continued. "I could've been part of some research facility wanting to use him for experiments!" The man merely shrugged, his obvious disregard making Scott's blood boil. "Or even a terrorist group wanting to use him," he added, anger radiating from him.

The officer snorted, "Good luck with _that_. This kid isn't the type to cooperate with anyone."

A shout followed by a loud thump came from behind a door along the wall, cutting Scott off before he could respond. The officer smirked and raised his eyebrows.

Scott turned his attention to the door, the anger still burning in him. The door slammed open and an overweight policeman came through backwards, dragging the teenager with him, followed by a wiry looking officer. Scott felt a sense of unease as he watched them from across the room, catching a glimpse of brown hair and then a flash of very worn sneakers as the mutant continued to struggle with the officers.

"He does everything the hard way," the desk officer said drily. Scott barely glanced toward the man, his attention still focused on the battle taking place on the other side of the room. He was rather alarmed at the boy's aggressiveness, wondering at the cause.

"I'm a little surprised they're releasing him to you. He did kill a man while robbing him," Scott looked fully at the desk officer again. "He admitted to it?" The guy shrugged.

"Claimed it was self defense. That's the only reason he wasn't immediately sent to a mental institute. Well that and the call from your Dean offering to take him." Scott noticed that several police officers had wandered into the room, apparently to watch this kid being dragged out and surrendered into his custody. He looked sharply at the desk officer again, catching amusement mixed with dislike in his eyes as he watched the two officers subdue the teenager. Apparently this was somehow entertaining to them all and Scott had had enough of it.

He moved quickly toward the continuing struggle and said firmly, "I think I can take it from here." He had to resist the urge to smile. The three identical looks of surprise directed at him seemed almost comical. But the moment passed as the teenager's eyes narrowed with suspicion. The two officers glanced at each other then looked back at Scott, shrugging and loosening their grips.

That was all the teenager needed. He wrenched free, ducking under the smaller cop and aiming for the front doors. The large officer was surprisingly quick, though, managing to grab the mutant's ankle as he climbed over a row of chairs. The boy came crashing to the ground, wriggling and kicking the cop in his efforts to get free.

Scott reached them just as the smaller officer did. The other policeman had managed to get the boy handcuffed but he was still struggling wildly. The cops pulled him to his feet and tried to shove him toward Scott but the mutant back pedaled as if touching Scott might actually hurt him.

"I'M NOT GOING BACK TO A MENTAL INSTITUTE!!"

The two officers grabbed him before he could bolt again, holding the squirming boy as Scott looked at them and said accusingly, "_Mental institute_?!"

The smaller officer had the decency to look slightly ashamed but the big guy simply shrugged and said defensively, "We were just messin' with him."

"WHAT?!"

Both officers stepped back from the teenager as he rounded on them, a surge of heat emanating from him. Scott was shocked at how menacing the young man looked as he faced the two policemen. Even handcuffed, he looked angry enough to take down both officers. Scott felt a moment's hesitation, wondering if the Professor had been wrong about the kid's lack of firestarting abilities. He could feel the heat from where he was standing several feet away.

Masking his concern, he walked up carefully behind the mutant teenager and gently put a hand on his shoulder. "It's not worth it," he told him quietly.

The boy jerked his shoulder away, throwing Scott a dark look, but visibly backed down to stand slightly behind Scott, breathing heavily and shaking slightly. Scott turned to the officers and asked for the key to the handcuffs, earning a disbelieving look from them before the smaller one finally handed a key to him.

Turning to the teenager, he said firmly, "My name is Scott Summers and I'm taking you to a private _school_ in Westchester. Right now, though, I want to uncuff you but you need to calm down and promise you won't try to run again…"

The bigger cop interrupted, "If we keep havin' to drag you back here, kid, they _will_ end up sending you to a mental institute."

"Enough!" Scott was fed up with their treatment of the boy. Turning to him, he said, "You're gonna have to trust me."

"Why should I?" the teenager asked belligerently.

"Do you see anyone else here you can trust?" The boy dropped his head, glancing around the room from under his brow, looking at the police officers scattered about. Scott scanned the room as well, marveling cynically at how full it was now when it had been almost completely empty at his arrival.

"John," John muttered. Scott looked him a question.

"My name is John," he said, looking sullenly at Scott. Scott took this as the boy's acceptance and walked around him, uncuffing his hands.

"Does he have any belongings we need to pick up?" Scott asked, looking toward the desk. The officer dropped a small plastic bag on the desk. Scott followed John to the desk and watched as he pulled out two bic lighters and a rather fancy-looking Zippo with a design painted on it. Apparently, that was the extent of his belongings. After they'd both finished signing the appropriate paperwork, Scott gave the officer a curt nod and, taking John's arm began to firmly lead him to the door. John pulled his arm free but followed closely behind as they exited the building.

Outside, Scott was fuming as they walked toward the car. He'd picked up kids before from bad situations but it never ceased to anger him at the callous and, many times, hateful treatment some of these children had to endure. The boy was too thin, in Scott's opinion. He hadn't had much chance to get a good look at him in the chaos of the police station, but now that he could, he was alarmed at how hardened the teenager looked. It was obvious that life hadn't been easy for him. While Scott agreed, in theory, with the Professor's policy of offering any mutant in need a safe haven at the institute, he sometimes doubted the wisdom of doing so. In practice, he'd found that some of the kids that were treated the worst before coming to the institute ended up being too disruptive at the school. Very few had been actually "expelled" because the Professor seemed to have limitless patience with most of them. More than a few had left of their own accord, after only staying on a short while. Scott was pretty sure the Professor felt responsible for each of those students' departures, no matter how many times he would tell the faculty that the student had made their own decision. He always kept an open-door policy for them, saying he would gladly accept any of them back as long as they were returning with an honest reason. Scott hoped that John wouldn't prove to be one of the disruptive ones but wasn't naïve enough to really think otherwise.

He glanced toward the teenager, wondering what his story was and noticed the boy looking at him with curiosity and suspicion.

"What's with the goofy glasses?" John seemed to be debating in his mind whether he could trust someone who wore such an accessory. Scott also suspected that he was planning some sort of escape. The boy kept scanning the street and sidewalk.

"They're for my mutation." Scott answered him, as they reached the car. For the first time, Scott got the impression that he had John's full attention. "You don't actually think I'd wear these without a good reason do you?" He smiled broadly at John, hoping to put him a little more at ease, and was satisfied to see the teenager's lips twitch in response.

"What's this school you're taking me to?" John had obviously recovered from his initial surprise and amusement and was already eying Scott suspiciously again. Scott leaned against the car, resting an arm on the hood as he considered what description might be the most effective in convincing John to come with him without a fight.

"The official name is Xavier's School for Gifted Students but most of the students call it Mutant High." John watched him with interest as he explained about the teachers and, especially, the students hoping that John would be enticed by the idea of living and going to school exclusively with other mutants like himself. Most mutants, especially the disenfranchised ones like John appeared to be, were mainly seeking a place to belong, a place to fit in. Very few of the students were comfortable enough with their mutation to feel accepted out in the world and even fewer knew how to handle themselves with the obvious prejudice and dislike that followed many mutants wherever they went. Scott was counting on John needing that acceptance and hoping that he would at least give it a try. If anyone could reach him, Scott was sure it would be the Professor.

Apparently, it worked because John slipped into the passenger seat when Scott opened the door for him. Within minutes, they were on their way, fighting stop and go traffic as they headed out of the city toward Westchester.

******************************

As Scott turned the corner two blocks down from the police station, a black car pulled into the parking space they had vacated just minutes prior. Two muscular men exited the car and walked into the police station, both wearing plain dark suits. One of them approached the desk officer while the other stood back a few feet surveying the room. The chairs had been put back in order and most of the room had cleared since the two mutants had left. There was no obvious indication that they had been there.

After a minute, the desk officer looked up at the man standing in front of him. "Can I help you?"

"I understand you brought a mutant in last night—a boy who could manipulate fire?"

The officer raised his eyebrows at the man and said, "Popular fella." The well-built man's gaze sharpened, taking on a hardened look that made the officer feel a bit uncomfortable.

"Meaning?" The look of steel on the visitor's face forcefully reminded the officer of Scott's words to him…_or even some terrorist group_…. He swallowed and said, "he was already picked up this morning. You just missed him."

"Is that so?" The muscular man raised his eyebrows, leaning forward on the desk in a subtly menacing fashion. "And who would have picked him up?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. There was silence for a moment as the officer stared at the man, almost mesmerized. He was under no illusions that these two men were extremely dangerous, although it seemed a bit surprising that they would waltz so confidently into a police station and try to intimidate a cop. The sound of the door closing across the room broke the silence and the officer was glad to see three other policemen enter the room. Apparently the tension in the room was tangible enough that all three officers took up spots nearby to keep an eye on the two suited men and whatever was transpiring at the desk.

With his colleagues nearby, the desk officer looked back at the man in front of him in a challenging manner and was immediately struck by the almost predatory look in the guy's eyes. An image of his daughter came, unbidden, into his mind.

"Some school in Westchester was taking him in." The desk officer shrugged, trying to look disinterested. "Didn't pay too much attention…we were just glad to be rid of the mutie." He justified sharing the information with the man by telling himself that it really wasn't enough for the guy to find the kid. There had to be dozens of schools up in Westchester…

"Surely you have a record…a signature somewhere?" The man looked polite and deadly. The desk officer was relieved that the other three policemen had moved in even closer, flanking and almost surrounding their two well-built visitors. The man at the desk glanced back at the other officers as the policeman at the desk said, "We don't share that kind of information with anyone. There's really nothing else I can give you…." He pointedly looked toward the door, wondering if these two would have the audacity to actually try to force him to tell them what they wanted to know. But the man suddenly backed down, giving the cop a broad smile and saying, "Of course. I understand. Thank you for your time."

The two men left as quickly as they'd arrived and the desk officer spent the rest of the day trying to ignore the feeling of guilt that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

**A/N: **I have no excuse whatsoever. I should be tarred and feather except that then I couldn't continue writing. Instead, you'll have to be satisfied with my self-punishment of never being able to...um...watch _Dancing with the Stars_ ever. It'll be tough but I deserve it.

On another note, thanks to **trovia** for her usual excellent editing suggestions. And thanks to those who had enough faith to subscribe to the story even though I haven't updated in forever.


	9. Ping Pong

**WARNING:** The first part of this story includes a scene that implies a rather kinky sexual relationship between Scott Summers and Dr. Grey, so if you find the idea of something like that offensive, you might want to skip down to after the third horizontal line break and just keep in mind that John had detention that got cancelled.

See my **A/N **below for grovelling and apologies, etc.

* * *

**Cold Comfort, Part IX, Ping Pong**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**ping pong**

_n. _something resembling a game of table tennis; _especially_, a series of usually verbal exchanges between two parties

_v._ shift, bounce

* * *

_Sixteen Years Old_

He was late. Not that he cared—it was just detention. The worse that would happen is Mr. Summers might assign him an extra detention or give him extra work to do. Big deal. Now if it were Ms. Munroe, he'd be in serious trouble. She didn't take shit from anybody. He flicked his lighter on again as he got to the classroom door. Hearing a whacking sound from inside the room gave him pause as he pictured Mr. Summers slamming books down on his desk. Maybe he was mad after all…

He heard the murmur of a voice—didn't sound mad. Maybe he'd just dropped something by accident. Shrugging, John flicked his lighter again and opened the door. Stepping inside, he froze, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as the door clicked shut behind him.

He caught of glimpse of a bare ass before Mr. Summers flipped the skirt down to cover it. Shapely legs, a schoolgirl uniform and auburn hair….John found himself leaning slightly to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman's face. Not that he really needed to—the hair was a dead giveaway. It was definitely Dr. Grey bent over the desk.

"Way to go, Mr. Summers!" John blurted out without thinking, a wicked grin on his face. He heard a quiet groan and the sound of a thump as Dr. Grey's head hit the desk.

Mr. Summers, his face bright red, edge in front of Dr. Grey's backside, holding a familiar-looking paddle behind him, as if he hoped John hadn't seen it. John's grin resolved itself into a smirk as he watched his teacher's squirm with embarrassment.

"Soooo," he exhaled, "Is this a bad time? Or should I just find a good spot…to work on my homework, of course…"

Mr. Summers cleared his throat.

"Yes, well…actually, we'll just…uh…postpone your detention to tomorrow."

_He's sweating!_ John thought gleefully.

"Sure thing, Mr. Summers." John turned toward the door, then paused. "I have some friends to hang out with, anyway. _Talk_ to…you know," he said with a wink. Mr. Summers jaw twitched and his face turned a darker shade of red.

"I…won't…be…blackmailed," he ground out through clenched teeth. John's eyes widened innocently. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir." The sugary-sweet tone made it obvious he was lying.

Dr. Grey made a strangled noise in the back of her throat and then hissed, "Scott!"

Mr. Summers opened and closed his mouth, making John think of a fish—a purplish-reddish fish…that was seriously considering blasting him with his laser eyes. _Maybe I'm pushing this a little too far._ John held his breath.

"Fine!" Mr. Summers finally relented. "Do the extra credit problems from chapters one through five. For tomorrow," he bit out.

"Wow! Thanks, sir. Night Dr. Grey," John said cheerfully, fighting to hold back his laughter when she feebly raised her hand in a dismissive wave.

It didn't take her long to recover, though. Before the door had closed, John heard Dr. Grey saying, "Give me that!" in a voice that sent a chill down his spine. Mr. Summer's stuttered excuse was drowned out by Dr. Grey's command for him to bend over.

* * *

Halfway down the hall, John gave in to the laughter, leaning against the wall as he gasped for air. Catching his breath, it finally dawned on him why the paddle had looked so familiar. It was one of the ping pong paddles from the rec room. John was fairly sure he'd never be able to play ping pong here again.

He started flicking his lighter again, still chuckling as he headed toward the stairs. What to do, now that he had some free time.

As he reached the end of the hallway, the smell of cigar smoke hit him, making his stomach clench. He was relieved to see Logan perched on the window ledge at the top of the stairs. Not that his dad would ever come after him with a cigar again, but the smell always brought back unpleasant memories.

"Interrupted the happy couple, eh?"

John let out a huff of air and slipped his lighter in his pocket. "Yeah. Can't decide if I should wash my eyes out with bleach or go tell everyone I know."

Logan gave a low chuckle that sounded more like a growl. "You should be glad you didn't walk in on them in the danger room. Woulda gone straight for the bleach."

John snorted and leaned up against the wall next to the window, staring out at the manicured grounds of the mansion. He'd been here close to a year now. Spent much of his time feeling out of place and convincing himself to give it a little more time. He'd gone through nine roommates (three of them at one time) in under four months and had finally been stuck with Bobby, a guy who was his complete opposite in every way imaginable. Not that John didn't do his best to annoy the shit out of him every chance he got. Bobby was the only one who not only put up with it but took it all with good humor and frequently gave back as good as he got. Plus, he had a seemingly endless supply of practical jokes and, while he frequently acted like a Mr.-Summers-wannabe, he also had a very playful side that reminded John of both Jason and Ivy.

His mind shied away from thinking too hard about Ivy but not before a frown reached his brow. He refused to think about his utter lack of success in finding her. He refused to feel guilty about how his efforts had slowed down dramatically since he first arrived. He hated feeling…refused to feel ashamed about how he could go for days without ever thinking about her now….

"How's the roommate?" Logan quirked an eyebrow at him. John let go of his thoughts on Ivy with a quick promise to himself to sneak back into the city that week and search for her again.

Glancing at Logan, he shrugged, making a face. "S'alright." His roommate troubles were well-known around the school and Logan had obviously heard the stories. "He puts up with me which is more than I can say about most people."

John tilted his head a little and watched Logan for a moment. "He's gotten pretty attached to your tagalong," he said, slyly, curious about the relationship between the two newest additions to the school.

They'd shown up a week previous and already the stories that surrounded them ranged from the slightly ridiculous to the utterly absurd. They were father and daughter running from some research facility. They were lovers running from her angry family because of their age differences. They were recruiters for some evil mutant terrorist group trying to persuade students to join their army.

John suspected the answer was much more mundane than any of the rumors flying around, which, if he were honest, was disappointing. Their being on the run, hiding from someone, gave him a connection he couldn't really seem to make with any of the trusting students and wannabe X-men that populated Mutant High. There were a few kids that likely had as unpleasant a history as John's, but he had yet to find another person on campus who questioned the methods or tenets that the professors taught them on how to survive in this world. And every newscast on TV just added to John's discontent as he listened to non-mutants discuss _his_ future and how to track and control mutants.

John figured that Logan wasn't the type to stick around anywhere for long and would just as soon hook up with the guy and get out of the school. Being there was alright at times—he enjoyed eating regularly and felt relatively safe most of the time but he was too cynical to believe that would last, especially if the government started instituting some of the new mutant regulations they loved to promote.

On the other hand, if Logan and Rogue really were recruiters, well…John didn't feel exactly warm and fuzzy about too many non-mutants and being a terrorist sounded a heckuva lot more interesting than taking science and literature with a buncha do-gooder geeks. Like everyone else, he'd heard the stories about the X-men—the teachers at Xavier's institute doubled as "heroes," fighting against terrorists, saving people and just generally being "good guys." Some students apparently even graduated and then stayed on as teachers and X-men. He wouldn't even kid himself into thinking he'd qualify for anything with the description of "hero" attached to it unless it were prefaced with "anti-." If he wanted to see that kind of action, or have any kind of direct involvement in fighting for mutant rights, he'd have to go somewhere else for it.

Of course, if Logan and Rogue were just strays (which he figured was the most likely scenario) there really wasn't any escape for him that way.

Other than an almost imperceptible stiffening of his shoulders, Logan gave no outward sign that he cared what Rogue was up to with Bobby (or anyone else, for that matter), not giving John much hint as to their relationship. Then Logan shrugged and speared John with an intense stare, bringing to mind a snake preparing to strike. John turned his gaze back out the window, shifting uncomfortably.

"You could do worse than a place like this, ya know."

John turned to Logan in surprise, giving him a searching look, then shook his head slightly before turning back to the window.

"I'm not so sure about that," he muttered.

"It's an ugly world out there, kid. Especially for people like us. You're not likely to find a better than this. They'll keep you safe, give you opportunities you wouldn't get most other places."

John continued staring out the window a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. Then he asked, "But how do you know this is the right way?"

Logan raised an eyebrow in question.

"They spend all their time trying to blend in and hide what they are—the Professor, the other teachers." John's agitation increased as he continued, "And that's all they teach us how to do. We shouldn't have to do that!" he finished, facing Logan angrily.

It was Logan's turn to gaze out the window, thoughtfully puffing on his cigar a moment. Then he sighed and said, "The world's been this way a long time. One group of people trying to force their will on others and…"

"It's not the same thing," John insisted, interrupting him.

"It's not, eh? How do ya figure that?" Logan asked.

"The abilities we have, the things we can do, make us…special…_better_."

Logan's eyes narrowed, watching John before dropping to look at the cigar he was rolling between his thumb and forefinger.

"That's a dangerous way to think. Leads to you doing things to non-mutants that you hate them for doing to us." He looked up at John, gauging his reaction. Then he shrugged and went back to smoking and looking out the window, as if he suddenly remembered that he didn't actually care about the teenager he was talking to.

"What do I know, kid. You want answers to life, go talk to the Professor."

John watched Logan, his anger growing. He could recognize a dismissal when he saw one. Logan was obviously tired of playing counselor, which was fine by John since it was obvious that Logan had bought into the Professor's philosophy, as well. John abruptly turned and stalked off down the stairs toward one of the back entrances, intent on getting outside and finding something to burn. He wondered, not for the first time, if the Professor was using some kind of brainwashing technique to make everyone agree with him but could never figure out why he was immune to it. He just couldn't understand how so many people would think that doing nothing was the best way to fight.

A memory skittered through his brain when he exited the building, the sun warming his arms as he walked toward the denser wooded areas and away from the other students playing on the grounds. He'd pulled his lighter out again and was flicking it as he tried to grab onto the memory and figure out its significance. Something to do with Norman. And books.

His 12th birthday started playing through his mind. One of two good birthdays he could ever remember having. Norman and Mrs. Grueber had thrown him a little party—cake, presents, even some decorations. Mrs. Grueber had given him that WWII fighter plane…he glanced down at the lighter in his hand…with the shark's head on the nose. And Norman had given him a book. A little book by that Russian guy. Now that the memory was playing through his mind he could see the inscription inside the front cover as if he were holding the book in front of him:

_To John,  
_

_The grandson I never had. Try to remember that fighting doesn't always have to include violence._

_With the greatest affection,  
Norman_

He swallowed hard, his anger having been exchanged for sadness. The memory had stopped him near the edge of the wooded area and he looked around uncomfortably to see if anyone had noticed his emotional state. No one was paying attention to him, though, which he felt was a mixed blessing. It would've been nice to have someone he felt comfortable enough to talk to right then. He started to head into the woods, instead, thinking about Norman's inscription and trying to figure out how you could fight against people intent on controlling you without resorting to violence at some point. And wondering why it mattered to him what Norman thought anyway. He hadn't seen him after that night of the fire and figured the old guy must've been horrified and disgusted when he found out what John was.

Just before he stepped into the woods, he heard someone call his name. Looking around, he saw Bobby standing on the basketball court with several other teenage boys, holding a ball.

"Come on, John! We need one more to even out the teams," Bobby called.

John hesitated a moment, then shook his head at himself for getting caught up in thinking so deeply. Life had never made much sense so it ended up being better just dealing with things as they came up. When it was time to fight, he'd fight, regardless of the crap they taught at this school. He changed directions and headed toward the basketball court, letting go of his anger and jumbled thoughts about the future.

* * *

**A/N:** Grovel, grovel, I am scum, I'm not worthy, grovel, grovel, grovel. [Fill in any further grovelling that you require for the extra long time I took to post this.]

Ha! I did it! The chapter, I mean. I had the worst possible time writing this, so I put it on the shelf and forgot about it for awhile. I even pulled it out occasionally and tried to write more and just couldn't go anywhere with it. So, I have to thank **TV Manic 2 **for re-inspiring me to get through this chapter by posting another installment of her Fantastic 4 fic (ok, I think she actually posted two stories and a one-shot before I really got serious again).

Thanks to **trovia** for all the initial help on this story, fleshing it out and all the editing on previous chapters. Since I took a whole year to complete this chapter, I didn't dare interrupt her life out of the blue and ask for her to beta it. Soooo, the bad and the good is all mine this time.

Thanks to those who reviewed and added me to their story alerts, especially **otterwarrior16** who's reviewed almost every chapter. Don't expect me to be consistent [insert more grovelling here, if necessary]. This is at the bottom of my list of hobbies, so it's doesn't always get the attention it deserves. However, I'm in the mood to work on it, so hopefully I can get a good chunk of it done.

Final note: I've only watched the movies. Never read the comics and don't intend to and I've only seen a couple of eps of the new cartoon when my children were watching it. So, I really have no idea what kind of relationship Scott and Jean have. I kinda doubt it's as kinky as I made it out to be so you can blame it all on **trovia** who wanted to see a scene like this. I wrote it last year for her, originally intending it to be a one-shot separate from the story but it kinda grew from there.


End file.
